 
## **Contents**

Title Page

Copyright Info

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

 Final Words

 Authors' Note

 Acknowledgments

The Changeling's Fortune

By

M.C. Aquila and K.C. Lannon

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

The Changeling's Fortune copyright © 2018 by M.C. Aquila and K.C. Lannon. All rights reserved.

The Changeling's Fortune is the first installment in a six-book YA Urban Fantasy series, Winter's Blight.

When Deirdre's destructive faery magic is unlocked, she must learn the truth of her parentage if she ever hopes to control it.

Seventeen-year-old orphan Deirdre moves to Neo-London, a city created after an attack by Unseelie faeries, and becomes caught in the tension between the city faeries and the human military.

Deirdre develops uncontrollable magical abilities after having her fortune told—making her the target of Alan Callaghan, an extreme anti-faery general.

His sons, Iain and James, cross paths with Deirdre and are pushed towards the opposite sides of the conflict between humans and Fae. Iain is a rookie soldier in the Iron Guard trying to atone for past mistakes and keep his family together. James is a fourteen-year-old aspiring scholar fascinated by faeries and eager to leave his life in the city behind.

As Alan conspires to control the city, Deirdre and James plot to leave, seeking answers about her magic and James's disappeared mother. However, when Deirdre is framed for a treasonous crime, their quest for answers becomes a desperate quest for freedom.

Chapter One

Kallista Callaghan had heard the rumors: there was a faery in the Neo-London Hospital. In all her years of working as a nurse, she had never had a faery patient before. She was determined to see if there was any stock in the whispers that circulated the building. If what she heard was true, then Kallista had to act quickly.

Where are you, Marko? You're late...

She tapped her foot impatiently and gazed out the wall of windows at the cityscape while she waited. A spring shower dotted the windows with rain, distorting the view of the city that had once been known as Portsmouth, built up into a grand city that mirrored its namesake in small ways. The lights of Neo-London winked in the darkness, and the city was quiet. The maternity ward was also absent the usual cries of pain, cries of joy, cries of relief. Tonight only one infant was delivered. Tonight there was only stunned silence.

Hearing footsteps, Kallista looked up to see Marko, a fellow nurse, walk down the hallway to meet her, still in his hospital scrubs despite his shift having ended.

"I was about to go in without you," Kallista informed him.

He placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "Maybe you shouldn't go in at all. Maybe you should go home to your husband and son, Kalli. Don't get mixed up in this."

"So what they're saying is true." Kallista rubbed her hands furiously on the front of her scrubs as sweat bloomed on her palms.

Marko nodded. "Supposedly, the mother threw half the staff against the wall when she went into labor—without even touching them. It was magic."

"What business does a faery have at a maternity ward? They have their own healers, their own ways of doing things."

"The father is human," Marko answered. "You might've heard of both parents, actually. Aino and Oliver Windsor. They were just on the radio the other night, pushing for faery protection laws."

Kallista's eyes widened, and she nodded in understanding. This was not the first time she had heard of such a thing, a faery and a human marrying, but it was rare. She knew of the Windsor couple and of their outspoken criticism of the military system, only because her husband had been fighting against their proposals for years. Oliver's relation to the king, his cousin, protected the couple's objections.

"Do you really want to get involved?" Marko asked. "Chances are, we'll have to smuggle the infant out of the city to get medical attention."

"I told you before," Kallista said. "I want to help."

For several years, Marko had also been practicing medicine outside the hospital, offering his services to those who could not afford it. While he rarely brought up faeries around her, Kallista knew that his help often extended to them—even though human medicine could not help much in some cases. Still, Kallista wanted to be a part of that.

Marko smiled at her faintly. "You have a family. People who need you. People who would hate to see you in prison."

She took his hand. "You have family too."

"Not one that depends on me." Marko gently pried her hand away; she pretended not to notice.

A few of Marko's relatives still lived in Neo-London after the government policies forced most of the Roma and Travellers away. His mother and father and a few cousins remained.

He looked her in the eye. "Kallista, are you sure?"

"I will see the baby. Then I will decide if I will help or not." But she already knew her answer.

As Kallista inched her way into the room, she was first struck by how beautiful Aino was. She had seen faeries in the city before, but none quite as stunning. The only feeling Kallista could compare it to was when her family had taken a day-trip to a lake outside the city and a white roe deer had shot out of the forest right in front of them. The animal had stood stock-still and staring before bounding off with grace and power.

At the time, Kallista's mother had said it was good luck to have such an encounter. Encountering a faery, however, usually meant the opposite.

Kallista's gaze drifted to the incubator at the end of the hospital bed and the infant that was lying unnaturally still inside. The baby's legs had stopped developing just above where the knees should have been. Even from the doorway, Kallista could hear the babe's labored, slow breathing, its lungs filling with phlegm, and she knew the baby would not last the night.

Oliver looked almost as tired as his wife but leaped to his feet from where he sat diligently by his wife's bedside. "Thank God," he said. "We've been waiting for someone to—"

"No one is coming to help you," Kallista said. There was a tremor in her voice, a tremor in her body; she clenched her hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

"I don't understand," Oliver said, his eyes darting toward his infant daughter. "Is there nothing the doctors can do for her?"

"Even if they could"—Marko entered the room behind Kallista—"it is not likely they would do a thing to save your little girl. This is not the first time they have let a child die. They believe she's a changeling baby—a faery child swapped for a healthy baby."

Shaking his head, Oliver protested, "She's not a changeling; she's half faery! Faeries wouldn't even notice her..."

"Even if you're right, the doctors will not help."

Aino's features were calm, set. When she spoke, her voice was musical in nature, demanding to be listened to. "My daughter needs a faery healer. You will take her to the Summer Court." Her sharp, blue-eyed gaze fixed on Kallista.

The Summer Court? But that realm has been hidden for decades...

Marko began to gather the sleeping infant into his arms with great care. He wrapped her in a hospital blanket.

Oliver walked over and planted a lingering kiss on his daughter's forehead. The infant took a shuddering breath.

"I will do my best," Kallista said.

"Consider it done." Marko nodded firmly.

Aino extended one pale arm toward the child and stroked her head of soft, dark hair, her hand beginning to shake.

She'll turn blond eventually, Kallista thought absently, if she lives long enough. Both Oliver and Aino had golden hair.

"Goodbye, Alvey." Aino pulled back her hand, clasping it tightly.

Marko grabbed Kallista's arm and began steering her toward the door. As they exited the room, Oliver and Aino huddled together, grasping each other in quiet desperation, Aino's eyes closed, her chin trembling. Kallista supposed that some rumors about the faeries held no weight: faeries could feel love and loss just like humans after all.

Kallista pulled her jacket tighter around her shivering, petite body and adjusted her red floral headscarf over her long, dark, wavy hair, pushing back the twin braids that framed her face. They spotted Marko's car parked a block away. Once they were able to drive, their chances of being discovered by the Iron Wardens—the militarized police that dealt with faery and human relations in the city—lessened somewhat. Still, the enforced curfew was growing closer, and they were running out of time.

"How are we going to sneak her past the city limits?" Kallista asked. She knew that the military often searched vehicles for contraband, unregistered goods, and forbidden items used for performing magic.

"My contact has assured me that the infant won't be seen or heard by anyone."

Kallista huffed. "And how exactly is your contact assured of that? Is this assuredness out of arrogance or... something else?" She shuddered at her own implication that the babe would be protected from discovery by magic.

"Didn't think it was any of my business to ask." Marko shrugged.

Kallista glared at him.

"What did she mean by the Summer Court?" she asked after a moment of terse silence. "Hasn't it been barred off from our world since the Cataclysm?"

Kallista had heard many tales of the Summer Court growing up—mostly of the beautiful Seelie queen, Titania, and Oberon, her powerful king. They and their only son, known by humans as the Summer Prince, ruled over their kingdom to the north. These childhood stories were always flowery and poetic, portraying the faeries as romping through the forests and singing and picking wildflowers when they weren't creating mostly harmless mischief for humans.

However, Kallista knew now that there was a darker side to the tales. Although the Summer Court was comprised of mostly neutral beings, they were no friends to humanity, providing no help in the aftermath of the bombing of London a little over twenty years ago. Instead, they barred their realm off with magic. The Summer Court had held only one objective for centuries: to win the war against the Winter Court, run by the Unseelie faeries, their even less friendly neighbors.

Marko did not answer her question about the Court, pointing silently to the street ahead where two members of the Iron Wardens were passing by. Kallista froze. The Wardens made rounds to ensure that no one in Neo-London, human or faery, broke curfew or any of the many rules they enforced. Kallista had been supportive of the idea when her husband had proposed it, but now it was more of a hindrance than a way to discourage magic use and the celebration of pagan or faery holidays.

After the Iron Wardens were out of sight, they began walking again. "We will go to the city limits, meet my contact, and make our trade."

"Trade?" The word tasted sour in her mouth. That word didn't belong with an infant.

"Well, more of an exchange."

"Those words mean the same thing, Marko."

Marko scratched at the back of his head, avoiding looking Kallista in the face. "Oddly enough, my contact came to me earlier this week, looking to hide a faery child within the city. He mentioned a curse—"

"We are not in the business of human trafficking!" Her stomach was like ice, though her chest felt aflame. "I will not send a human child to become a slave, one of their thralls."

"Kallista—"

"You don't know the stories I've heard about children being traded to faeries like they're nothing. You cannot trust a faery, Marko. Ever."

"You of all people should reserve judgment. Perhaps your husband's prejudice has blinded you as well."

Kallista was silent for a moment. She seethed as they neared the car, knowing he was right.

I won't admit it though.

"My contact, Mr. Goodfellow, assures me that Alvey will be very well taken care of. Once she's healed, she might be able to see her family again. Until then, we have the chance to do more good by helping out another family. They need a home for the faery child, and we have just the family lined up all ready."

Kallista frowned. Assuming Oliver and Aino will be willing to take a child in right after losing their daughter.

Looking at Alvey again, Kallista stopped short of opening the car door. "I am stealing a gazhe baby away into the night, Marko."

She was one of the last of her community in Neo-London. Most people in the city did not see her as a woman, a wife, a mother—they called her a Gypsy. While she was only delivering the child at the parents' request, the irony of the situation was not lost on her. Why the gazhe, the non-Roma, had the ridiculous notion that the Roma wanted to take their children was beyond her.

"If anyone finds out I've done this..."

"It could be worse." Marko glanced over his shoulder at her, offering her a wry smile. "You could have cursed the parents and their children's children before you left."

Kallista laughed, but it was tinged with pain. If she had any ability to curse anyone like the gazhe thought she did, she certainly wouldn't have to worry about being caught.

"Besides," Marko added. "Who would arrest the wife of the beloved Captain Alan Callaghan of the Iron Guard?"

Kallista was not certain if she had imagined the hint of disdain in Marko's voice when he said her husband's name.

"People see what they want to see." She sighed. "It doesn't matter who my husband is."

"Then I will make sure you don't get caught."

"But if something does happen to me, I trust you'll keep your promise, yes?"

"I'll look after your family. I swear it."

"Nayis túke."

"You're welcome."

It had been years since Kallista had ventured beyond the city limits. They had made it past the military patrol with surprising—if not disconcerting—ease. No one had glanced in the back seat of Marko's car, where Kallista lay on the floor, wedged behind the seats with the babe in her arms. They left the lights of Neo-London behind, driving until concrete and suburban neighborhoods gave way to gravel roads and open, endless sky.

The last time Kallista had been this far outside the city, she'd bid her family goodbye. Her father, mother, sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles—they had all fled the city to avoid being arrested or forced out against their will after their businesses were shut down with no provocation. It had not been an easy or welcome goodbye when she'd chosen to stay and marry the father of her child.

"Why have we stopped?" Kallista questioned as she climbed out of the car. She rocked Alvey with great care in her arms, trying to soothe her faint, mewling cries.

"Mr. Goodfellow will meet us here," Marko said.

Kallista scoffed. "Here? In this specific spot in the middle of nowhere?"

The only notable landmark was a hawthorn tree with sprawling roots in the field. After the Cataclysm, a primal fear had taken hold, and all manner of things—even trees—associated with faeries had been destroyed. Now that laws were in place to protect the faeries and their land, incidents like felled hawthorn trees occurred less often.

While she felt initially frightened about meeting another faery in the same night, her anxiety turned to irritation as the minutes gave way to an hour without a sign of anyone.

Kallista stamped her foot against the ground. "Damn the faeries!" Kallista hissed, handing Alvey to Marko. She stomped again, feeling better each time she did it. "I knew it. I knew your contact would be late. As if I do not have a life, a family that needs me in order to function, waiting at home!" Kallista jabbed her finger at him. "You know why he's late? I bet it isn't even because he's a faery. It's because he's a man. All of you are the same, even across the species—"

Someone cleared his throat. A rather high-pitched, musical ahem. It did not belong to Marko.

"Ah." The voice interrupted. "My lady, you are correct in your observation. Though, I did not realize we were so, ah, pinched for time. We all mark its passage in a different manner from your folk."

Kallista whirled around, her eyes straining wildly in the darkness for the source of the voice. She brought a hand to her mouth but held back a cry as she laid eyes on the man before her, who was just a bit shorter than her. Even in the dim light, she could make out the green tinge to the faery's skin. Her face heated when she noticed how sparsely he was dressed, completely unmindful of the damp, cool air.

"Hello, Mr. Goodfellow," Kallista sputtered.

"You may call me Puck." The man waved his hand dismissively. He looked them both over, beginning to smile in a way that was thin but not cold. "A nomad lord and lady, under the stars... running in the dark. But this is nothing new." His smile widened as his gaze fell on the bundle in Marko's arms. "You have the child then?"

Kallista frowned. "Not for much longer, if you keep her waiting. Time may be frivolous to you, but the child barely has time left."

Marko handed the infant to Puck. Kallista watched Puck closely, as if he were going to devour her instantly.

"My sincere thanks! I'm starved."

Kallista's jaw dropped. Before she could lunge at the creature with her fists raised, Puck burst into a fit of giggles. "Don't look so grim, my lady! I'm not going to eat her. I just enjoy a good jest, and furthermore..." He looked down at Alvey, who gave a weak cough, stroking her hair with one long finger as he continued, "Her parents have been friends to the Court. Whether they meant to or not..."

Kallista looked down. Marko spared her by speaking up quickly. "Where is the faery child?"

"Ah, yes! I suppose we shan't forget her." Puck crouched down on the ground and reached behind him, where a small, red-haired babe was asleep on his back, tied there gently with a large leaf and some kind of twine. He did not touch the child's skin once as he held her out for Kallista to take. She did so.

"Her name is Deirdre," Puck said. "All her mother knew was sorrow upon her birth, and thus she chose that name. That is all this child, or you, will know of her origins. That is all she needs."

Kallista studied the child but found nothing in her soft face that gave her away as Fae. She looked human. She tucked the child against her protectively. "She will be taken care of."

Puck nodded, smiling again. He tucked Alvey into the same makeshift carrier on his back. "The Summer Court thanks you for your service." And with that, Puck seemingly vanished into the muggy spring air, leaving behind only unanswered questions and a baby.

Kallista smelled the smoke and saw it billowing in a plume into the night sky before she reached the city.

Outside of the hospital, the Iron Wardens lined up outside along with the fire department, keeping everyone back, guiding people out on stretchers and in wheelchairs and beds.

Marko pulled away, tires squealing, before anyone saw them. Several body bags were visible on the pavement.

"What are you doing?"

"We can't get in there now. We will find someplace for the baby in the meantime until we know what happened." Marko's voice was steady, though his fingers were trembling on the steering wheel.

Kallista shook her head, as if trying to shake a troubling thought from her mind.

After a minute of silence, Marko asked, "Where can Deirdre stay tonight?"

Kallista stared down at the baby. Of course the child must stay with her. It seemed like the logical answer until she remembered exactly what the child was. Her eyes widened in alarm at the thought. "I can't take her home, Marko. If Alan found out that she's a faery..."

"Say no more." Marko grunted. "I'll take her for the night. We can figure something else out tomorrow until we can get her to her new home."

"What kind of home would that be?" Kallista asked. Handing over the child to the Windsor couple had made sense at least; one of the parents was Fae. She couldn't imagine a human family raising a faery.

"I could ask around. See if anyone in Ferriers Town is willing to take her in."

Kallista made a face, unnerved by the suggestion. The child looked so human.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea. We cannot be certain if a faery took her in that it would be for the right reasons."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"If she could perhaps be raised in a human environment, with a strong religious influence..." She might turn out fine. Before the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. It would be wrong to force the child to hide who she was.

"I could take her," Marko suggested, though he sounded hesitant. He must have known that it would not be possible or ideal even if he did want to take her in.

Kallista smiled warmly at him. "We'll think of something."

Marko drove quietly to the military housing, which was up a steep, walled hill where the city became more suburban, and parked in front of a small, plain home that was tucked between many identical houses. He came around and opened the door for her. Kallista carefully laid the child in the seat before saying good night and then watched him drive away in silence.

As she unlocked the door, crept inside, and removed her shoes in favor of her slippers, it occurred to her that she was out past curfew. She felt a bit like a rebellious teenager, which had been not too long ago. When the lights flipped on, she let out a yelp of surprise.

"I radioed the hospital, and no one could find you." Alan was standing in his pajamas, holding their sleeping son in one arm. Her husband's mousy brown hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his ruddy, boyish features were hardened with concern.

"I... I'm sorry—" She could hardly get the words out before he closed the gap between them and kissed her deeply, his hands sliding under her head, twisting in her hair. Her arms fell loosely to her sides, her worries forgotten for a brief moment. She pulled back, breathless.

Kallista's eyes softened on Iain, whose head was resting against his father's chest, oblivious to the commotion. Nearly a year old and he had a full head of thick, wavy dark hair. His small, dark, olive-toned hand was gripping the collar of Alan's nightshirt.

"Marko offered to drive me home after my shift, but we, uh, got stuck in traffic. I'm sorry to have worried you."

Alan didn't reply, seeming to accept her excuse.

Kallista reached out and stroked her son's face. "What are you doing with Iain?"

"Neither of us can sleep when you're not here, I suppose."

Kallista sighed. "What happened at the hospital?"

After delivering Iain to his crib, Kallista and Alan both walked into the tiny living room. Alan plopped down on the couch with a groan and ran a hand over his face. "It was the Dearg-dues. Burning their victims is their trademark."

"The mob?" Kallista gaped.

"There is no need to fret, love. The Iron Guard received an anonymous tip beforehand. Several mob members were shot on sight when they were caught leaving the building. Justice will be done." She did not hear the satisfaction of justice in his voice. "But not before they took the lives of some very influential people."

"Who were they—the victims?"

"Oliver and Aino Windsor."

Kallista was grateful to be sitting down, as the room began to sway in her vision. Tears prickled behind her eyes, and she was grateful for the dim lightning to hide them. "Oh," she exhaled shakily.

She searched the room for anything to focus on. Her eyes landed on the mantle and to the mess of broken glass under it. She sat up. The glass caught the light, winking at her.

"Don't." Alan grabbed her arm as she moved to inspect the glass. "You'll cut yourself."

"Your photographs," Kallista said. "What happened?" The mantle that once held portraits of Alan's family was now empty, the frames shattered on the floor. "Don't tell me Iain is getting into mischief already. I thought we at least had another year or so before the terror started." Her laugh died in her throat when Alan did not respond.

"I'll clean it up in the morning," Alan said.

Kallista was going to question him further but stopped when he leaned his head against her shoulder. She sighed, responding by wrapping her arm around him.

The room was quiet, save for the clock ticking away on the wall and the slow rhythmic breathing of the two of them.

"I don't want to lose this." Alan spoke up suddenly, his voice muffled against her shirt. He sounded so distant from her.

Kallista held him tighter, refusing to let him slip away, refusing to let him close up like he usually did. "Lose what, my love?"

Alan did not speak.

"You won't. You won't lose this, or anything. We're here. We're both here. I'm not going anywhere." Sometimes she felt like her words went unheard. He was scarred, like many who fled to the city from the Cataclysm. They were all afraid of the same thing happening again.

She held Alan until Iain woke them both by fussing in his crib. That night, Kallista found no sleep, only images of flames, charred bodies, and an orphaned infant burning behind her eyes. She knew that what she saw tonight would leave her scarred too.

It almost felt like a betrayal, taking a faery child to the orphanage several hours from the city. But that was exactly what Kallista did the very next morning. She and Marko had discussed options for several hours, eventually coming to the same conclusion: no single family, no matter how hard they might look, could be guaranteed to be the right match for a faery child. They knew that Trinity orphanage was equipped to handle any sort of child, and they knew it was a nicely kept and well-staffed facility.

Marko snorted as they drove along the gravel road to the building.

"What could possibly be amusing to you right now?" Kallista asked, irritated. She was holding the child tightly in her arms like she did not want to let go.

"What could be funny about a faery at Trinity?" Marko smiled.

Kallista sighed. She didn't think it was very amusing. At least her husband would probably never discover the child was there at all.

It felt like a second betrayal, just leaving the babe on the doorstep, but she could not risk getting caught with a strange child.

Before she left, Kallista made sure the sleeping girl was wrapped warmly and snugly. She left a note by the door with only the child's name scrawled there.

She gave the soft head one last, gentle stroke. "I wish you luck, Deirdre. May God go with you."

Chapter Two

"Come on, Louise, get up." Deirdre nudged the sleeping girl again. Her usually willing playmate grumbled and turned over in bed.

She ran around to the other side of the girl's bed and prodded her arm. "We're going out to play."

"Says who?" the girl mumbled, not opening her eyes. "It's dark. I'm tired."

"But you said you'd go out to play tonight! Louise?"

The four-year-old girl only let out a light snore in response.

After moping for a moment, Deirdre stood up straight, her determination renewed. She said she was going outside to play tonight, and so she would.

She padded on bare feet, clothed only in her nightgown, over to the open window, surrounded by beds full of other young girls. Outside, purple dusk had not yet turned into the black night. The heavy curtains on the nursery window were drawn back, the shutters open, hoping to coax in a nonexistent breeze. With the windowsill too high to reach, Deirdre instead shimmied up the thick curtains and leaped out the window and onto the waiting ground a short drop below.

The fragrant scents of a hot summer night were all around her, in the grass, in the air. She skipped happily across the lawn, heading toward her favorite playing spot behind a small line of trees.

"Deirdre!"

The girl froze as a tall Icelandic nun, Mother Superior, headed across the lawn toward her.

"Get back inside this instant!" She steered Deirdre back across the lawn. "How did you even get outside, child?"

"I climbed," Deirdre muttered, her head lowered.

"That was a very foolish thing to do. Wandering alone is not safe."

"You were out here alone."

"I was finishing my rounds, checking for little runaways like you." Mother Superior pinched her cheek; every girl hated when she did that, and she knew it. It was an effective, quick form of punishment.

Mother rushed Deirdre back to the nursery, all the while reminding her of the rules of the orphanage. As she was tucked in again, Mother forbade her from "being reckless." And after she left, Deirdre immediately sat up to see if the window had been shut. It had, and she sniffed in disappointment, slowly lowering herself back onto her pillow.

Classes began a few weeks later as summer turned into autumn. Picture books, alphabet games, and crafting paper did little to tempt her eyes from the windows and the world outside. And when the girls were allowed to play, she was the first to jump up and sprint out of the room, laughing as she ran. The outdoors meant play, and play was what she lived for.

And woe betide any child who broke a rule while playing with her. Once while the supervising Sister (Sister Teresa, a young Indian woman) was occupied, a classmate named Adelaide ran instead of stopping during freeze tag. Immediately Deirdre turned red in the face and bellowed at her to freeze where she was, her deep little-girl voice completely losing its sweetness and softness. Adelaide froze, unmoving save for her sniffling nose and quivering chin. Smiling, Deirdre turned away, feeling that all was well.

The long days of early childhood passed, each hour wonderful, full with play and growth, food and learning, playmates and affection from the Sisters. Her mind latched onto a new feeling each minute and then promptly cast it to the winds in favor of whatever came next. Even as she became aware of what being an "orphan" meant, it did little to dampen her fervor. When the thought disturbed her, she decided that her parents must have died. There was no other reason why she could have wound up at the orphanage.

As she reached her seventh year, she showed no sign of growing out of the innate and stubborn sense of fairness that young children possessed; rule breaking or lying was not to be tolerated.

Once she had to apologize for calling Adelaide a stupid liar when the girl boasted that her father was King Eadred and that she was a princess.

"My father could be someone important," Adelaide had pressed later that day, looking down her nose at Deirdre.

"But you don't know," Deirdre protested. "None of us know our parents! And saying you do is lying."

"When I find mine, they'll be important and rich," Adelaide persisted. "I'm just here because of an accident, like in the faery tales. I bet they're looking for me right now."

"If you're here, your parents are dead, Adelaide!" Deirdre nearly shrieked, her fists balled. "All our parents are dead forever! They aren't looking for us!"

When Adelaide began to cry, Deirdre felt tears springing to her eyes as well. One of the Sisters came in to see what the fuss was about and found both girls sitting on the ground and sobbing their hearts out.

One wet, muddy day she was playing with Charlotte, a girl in her class who had agreed to sneak out during study time and play hide-and-seek. As Charlotte hid her face behind her fingers and began to count to thirty, Deirdre turned to run, only to glance back and see the other girl watching her through splayed fingers.

"Don't watch me!" Deirdre shouted. "Cover your eyes!"

Charlotte covered her eyes for one second, only to peer through again with a grin.

"You have to cover your eyes!" Deirdre pointed at Charlotte. "It's the rule!"

"I am covering my eyes," Charlotte answered, lowering her hands, her eyes wide open.

"You are not!"

The other girl laughed. "Why are you so mad?"

"You're not following the rules! And if you don't follow them, we can't play."

"You don't always have to follow them," said Charlotte, sniffing haughtily. "That's what Felicity says. If you had a sister, you'd know better too."

"Felicity is stupid," Deirdre shot back maturely.

Charlotte scowled at her. "It's your fault for not having a sister! Don't be mad just because you don't have any family!"

In response, Deirdre slapped Charlotte. Hard.

Crying, Charlotte ran to Felicity, who was around eleven years old. Deirdre was known as a weirdo among the older girls and not in a cute way. Earlier that year, she had been caught raising a bunch of tadpoles with the sole intent of eating them when they grew big enough. Plus she had begun to barge into and win the older girls' games, especially races. She was not a humble winner.

So when Charlotte came to Felicity with a big sore mark on her cheek, it didn't take much encouragement for Felicity to get a couple of friends and find Deirdre inside. Felicity and her friends cornered her.

"How dare you slap my sister!" Felicity hissed. She pinched Deirdre on the forearm, twisting fiercely.

"She was being mean." Deirdre sniffed, smacking Felicity's hand away and glaring stubbornly at the older girl. "And you're all a bunch of fat, stinky bullies!"

When the girls grabbed her and dove into the nearest room, hauling her toward the wardrobe, Deirdre did not cry for help. Her vision red with anger, she fought: kicking, punching, pulling hair, even biting. But the girls still threw her into the wardrobe, full of heavy, old coats, and locked her in. Deirdre heard them fussing over their injuries and muttering about how she was a little animal; that did not bother her, but the sound of the door shutting behind them did.

Screaming in outrage, she threw herself wildly against the wardrobe door, the long coats covering her face. With each bodily hurl, she got more tangled in the coats' sleeves that wrapped around her limbs and around her head. She froze when her face was covered, and she realized she could not breathe.

Her mind going blank in panic, she struggled and twisted; as the seconds passed, her lungs began to scream for air. When she tried to blindly run forward, her wet, muddy shoes slipped on the wardrobe's floor. She fell forward onto her face, the sleeves releasing her.

After taking several deep breaths, she rolled over onto her back. The long ends of the garments still brushed her legs and forehead. Staying as low as she could, she scooted over to the wardrobe door, pressing herself against it. The only light came through the keyhole.

"Hello?" she called shakily.

No one answered, and she began to cry. She called again and again until her throat went sore. She curled into a ball, finally giving up.

I'm going to be here forever, she thought, her body going cold. I don't have a sister to come find me, or a mother or father. No one is going to come. She cried harder.

When night was falling and Sister Teresa took roll of the young girls, she noticed Deirdre was missing. No one spoke up, except to report when they had last seen her, so she began searching. She and a couple of the other Sisters began searching the grounds and the halls, calling out her name.

Deirdre had looked up. At first she assumed she imagined her name being called, but it came again. Through the shut wardrobe, the voice sounded unfamiliar and strange. For a wild moment she thought maybe it was her own mother.

"I'm here!" She sat up straight. "I'm here!" She began to smile, all she had ever imagined about her mother coming back to mind, real, immediate.

She wasn't dead! I'm going home. I'm going home!

When the wardrobe opened and she saw the familiar face of Sister Margaret, the image of her mother shattered. She began to cry again, not resisting as Sister gently urged her to her feet, leading her away to the kitchen for some hot milk before taking her to bed. Deirdre drank it without tasting its sweetness.

The next morning she sat up in bed and scanned the room for Charlotte; she was asleep like all the other girls. But she did not dare face Charlotte alone again. So the moment Sister Teresa stepped inside, before she could even open her mouth to wake the girls, Deirdre ran across the room to her and, pointing at Charlotte, told her the entire story.

Of course Charlotte was punished a little, and Felicity and her friends were punished a lot. But Deirdre also went without playtime privileges for a couple of days, and she had to apologize to Charlotte for slapping her. And she did so but only because she didn't want to go back into that wardrobe (or even see it, ever again).

Charlotte, Felicity, and her friends did not try to get back at her. But they did begin to call her a sneak, a tattletale, and a snitch.

Unwilling to be locked up again, Deirdre stopped doling out punishment on her own. But hating the title "snitch" and all the shame that came with it, she didn't report any bad behavior to the Sisters either. Even playing wasn't as fun as it used to be without rules to be followed, and she nearly stopped playing altogether. As she entered her eighth year, her list of friends dwindled down to zero.

Sister Margaret, in charge of eight- to eleven-year-old girls, had first assumed her growing listlessness was a result of being locked inside. She held off from acting or giving her special attention, hoping she'd grow out of it.

A couple of weekends after fall term began, Deirdre was headed toward the library, lagging behind after having to clean up a mess she made during breakfast. Sister Margaret walked briskly toward Mother Superior's office, her face red and her fists balled.

"What's wrong?" Deirdre asked, falling into step beside her.

"Nothing," she replied immediately.

Frowning, the girl pressed. "Lying is against the rules."

Sister Margaret smirked at her. "You're cheeky, aren't you? It's nothing— I'm just a little upset at one of the Sisters."

Deirdre nodded; this she could understand. "Was she mean?"

"No, but she broke one of the convent rules. One of the small ones, but..." She bit her lip, stopping and looking at Deirdre again, realizing she had said too much.

"But you couldn't punish her for it, could you?" Deirdre asked.

"Oh, no, that's Mother Superior's job," Sister Margaret answered. "I'm going to report everything to her."

Deirdre blinked. "So you're a snitch?"

Sister Margaret slowed, considering her. "Deirdre, authorities decide what punishment is given. You know that, don't you?"

"But you don't see all the bad things the other girls do. They lie and cheat sometimes, but you don't see it! None of you do. But I can't tell you who or when... that'd be snitching."

Sister Margaret froze, but then she crouched down and took Deirdre's hand, saying, "It is okay to tell us when you see something bad happening. It's good to report something bad to me or another Sister or to Mother Superior. We have the experience and knowledge to know how to handle the situation. And if some girl is doing something really bad, us knowing about it will help that girl."

Deirdre faltered, biting her lip. "Everyone says... Charlotte says that's being a tattletale. That it's bad to tell on people."

Sister looked her in the eye, a small smile playing at her lips. "Do you really think Charlotte knows better than I do?"

Immediately Deirdre shook her head, her short ginger curls flying back and forth.

"Then forget about that. If you see something that you believe is truly bad, don't be afraid to speak up. Tell one of the Sisters. We'll be happy you did. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sister Margaret," Deirdre said, a smile forming on her face.

"Good."

Within a few short days, Deirdre became known as the very worst tattletale in the school. The other girls could not get away with anything, and her popularity certainly did not increase. But now when she was called a snitch, she grabbed that insult, tossed it over her shoulder, and kept walking. She knew what she should do to ensure all was right, and so her spirits buoyed back to full life and vigor.

Her unrelenting insistence on fairness did not change as she kept growing; in fact, she changed very little compared to her classmates, especially once they turned twelve. Her classmates began to outpace her in academics, asking questions and having ideas deeper than she could conceive. They began seeing the world in new ways. Especially when it came to boys.

While they didn't have any boys in the orphanage, there were plenty in the nearby village. They became the sole topic of discussion for the girls during their free time. For hours, they would compare and argue over whose crush was cutest. Deirdre would try to change the subject, but it was fruitless. She felt stupid, completely out of the loop.

Once she tried to engage in their chatter, during which they did their hair in a variety of styles and played with makeup they weren't supposed to have. After she was forbidden from using the makeup to make monster faces, Deirdre stood up, saying, "This is boring," and left. The girls called her weird or slow or a child as she walked out the door. Their words made tears spring to her eyes, but she still immediately joined a game of freeze tag with the younger children, unwilling to play alone.

As she became a teenager, Deirdre spent almost no time with girls her age, becoming a playmate and a "cool" big sister to all the younger girls. Spending time with creatures smaller, more fragile, and far more sensitive than her forced her to learn skills that had so far eluded her. Through trial and error, she learned how to determine what games were appropriate for which children and how to explain the rules. She learned how to wait for the younger children to catch up when they went for walks or runs on the grounds.

Finally she learned how to bond with those she would usually ignore. There was one little girl named Iris who got sick easily and so was rarely able to run and play. Once, Deirdre saw Iris confined to her bed, crying from boredom and loneliness, which prompted her to ask the Sisters to teach her new games—quiet, safe indoor games that even the most nauseous child could play without getting sick or exhausted.

She then taught those games to Iris, who was a sharp learner. They most often designed and made paper dolls; Iris was especially amused at how Deirdre, nearly twice her age, was remarkably awful at it, often accidentally cutting her dolls to shreds (after which she usually tore up the pieces in frustration).

And when Iris was too sick for even that, Deirdre would either make up stories or read them to her. While Iris liked to hear stories where orphan children found their birth parents, Deirdre read them reluctantly. The thought of her parents still stung. While she had been completely confident they were dead ever since the wardrobe incident, it still hurt to think that she would never see or hear them, never see what she would look like once she grew up.

On better days when Iris was not nauseated or fevered, Deirdre would put the little girl on her shoulders and run her outside. She knew it was a good day if Iris also laughed as much as she as they dashed out the door.

When Deirdre turned fifteen and Iris was eight, the girl was adopted by a lovely, sweet-spoken mother and a charming father, who lived in a small town with clean air and open fields. And as they tightly hugged farewell, for the first time Deirdre cried both from sorrow and happiness.

This must be what it's like to have a family, she realized as she kissed the little girl on the forehead.

Shortly after Iris left, Deirdre and her class began to dress differently, more like young women than girls, with middle-length skirts and boots that went to their knees, always with modest, thick leggings underneath instead of tights. They began to learn professional and domestic skills: finance, sewing, embroidery, education, and everything that would make them an exceptional future secretary, teacher, manager, or small-business owner.

When she turned sixteen, Deirdre was trusted to take the ten-year-old girls on weekly hikes; she also took them and other groups on camping trips, lasting anywhere from two days to nearly a week. The weekly hikes thankfully overrode her one sewing and embroidery class. Mother Superior encouraged her to focus more on childhood education than home economics, though she still emphasized that Deirdre needed to learn finesse in sewing at some point in her life.

Deirdre didn't cling to her or anyone else's criticism. She rarely minded that she spent almost no time with girls her age; the only thing she disliked was being alone. Only Adelaide, who had grown into the sort of person who always assumed the best, went out of her way to spend time with Deirdre. The other older girls had labeled her as irrevocably weird when she never showed any interest in or attraction to romance or marriage.

"It probably just means you'll be a nun," Adelaide offered helpfully between classes one day.

"But I don't want to be a nun," Deirdre countered. "All the Sisters say that they knew it was their calling. I've never had that feeling."

Adelaide just shrugged in response.

That May, just days before she turned seventeen, Deirdre brought up the subject once to Sister Margaret, who was now her advisor and spiritual counselor. She listened and then shrugged as well.

"You may just be called to be single, and that is perfectly fine," she explained, looking Deirdre in the eye as they sat side by side on a stone bench on the orphanage grounds. "No vocation is superior or inferior to another."

"But what if I am weird or slow like the girls say?" Deirdre pressed, swinging her legs.

Sister Margaret waved her hand dismissively. "Deirdre, this is England. The English are remarkably good at calling people not like them all sorts of silly names. So don't let it get to you when those girls, or anyone else, says you're weird or odd or bad simply because you are different. They're just being rude. Understood?"

Deirdre sighed but nodded. "Yes, Sister."

"Besides"—she brushed back a lock of Deirdre's curly, bright red hair that was hanging in her face—"you're going to get singled out even more when you leave us and go to Neo-London to finish your schooling after summer's end. I don't know if you are Scottish like me or Irish like your name... but your ginger hair won't be smiled on much in Neo-London. But don't let it get to you. God gave you that lovely hair, and He knows what He's doing." She smiled at Deirdre. "Don't let anyone make you think you need to dye or straighten it!"

Summer passed by too fast. Deirdre let her hair grow longer than ever—all the way down to her waist (it was actually longer, but the frizz and the curl always pulled it up a few inches). She played and camped out with the younger girls, and every day Sister Margaret encouraged her to get her fun in now. Neo-London was the biggest city in England, she said, but there was no room for a young woman to run free. Deirdre wasn't entirely sure if she believed her; she hoped for the best, thinking a city so full of people must have a lot of fun in store.

The last day of August arrived, and she, with one tiny suitcase of clothes, stepped onto the local grocer's truck that was headed to Neo-London. She was going alone; all the other girls had jumped ahead of her in their studies and had already graduated, leaving to go to university or their first job.

She hugged all the Sisters, and she kissed and picked up and spun around all the young girls. Some of them cried, and she joined in.

Last of all, she turned to Mother Superior, whose face was stiff, almost severe. Deirdre had seen that expression before when other girls had left. She knew the moment she had driven out of sight that Mother Superior would begin to silently cry.

Unwilling to make the proud woman unravel, Deirdre simply curtsied, saying, "Goodbye, Mother Superior."

Mother nodded, patting Deirdre on the head. "Your hair is so long. Be careful it doesn't get caught on anything, like it got caught on those branches last week."

"Yes, Mother."

"And always say please and thank you. You forget to do that a lot."

"Yes, Mother."

"And we'll be praying for you, so don't worry and do your best."

Deirdre nodded, beginning to smile. "Yes, Mother. Is that all?"

She shook her head quickly, waving her hand in dismissal. "Off you go, child."

And as she sat in the back seat of the grocer's truck and waved and shouted goodbye to the girls and the Sisters, she could see Mother Superior turning away, wiping her eyes. Tears beginning to fall from her own eyes, she kept waving until they rounded a corner and the orphanage was out of sight.

In her heart, she dearly hoped she would be back as soon as possible.

Chapter Three

James Callaghan had last seen his mother six years ago. She had been wearing a bright yellow skirt and a vibrant green blouse; that was the most clear, sharp image, standing out against grey of the city. From the window of the small bedroom he shared with his brother, James had watched her walk out of sight from the military housing. She had packed lightly for a sudden, weeklong holiday to visit her family out of the city. Her goodbye had been brief and forgettable; no matter how hard James tried, he could not conjure her parting words in his mind.

The moments he did remember were as bright as the colors she wore: she used to tell James and his older brother Iain stories at night. She weaved fantastical tales, some of them retellings of folktales and some of them true stories. After she got home from her shift at the hospital, she would sit in a chair between their two beds, and before they knew it, they were awake far past their bedtimes. Night was never quiet in their house when Mum was there.

Frequently they received noise complaints from their neighbors because of their riotous laughter when Mum told them personal stories from her youth, like how she had convinced her grandfather to let her and her sister eat all the sweets in their home: "Once upon a time...," she would begin, "my sister Delphi and I were once mischievous girls, very badly behaved!

"After my grandfather came home from working all day, he would always remark, 'Oh, how clean this house is! I wonder how it happened?' Of course, he knew it was my grandmother who kept the house so clean, but she did not know he teased her. He was not the brightest man. My grandmother became fed up with all her hard work not being recognized, and one day she answered back, 'It's the house faery that keeps it clean! Don't you know anything?' Grandfather was confused. He had no idea we had a house faery!"

The boys had to stifle their giggles with their pillows. A Romani family, keeping a house faery? It was ridiculous. It was bad luck. It was the kind of thing the gazhe would invent about them to validate his or her fear of the fair folk.

"Well, he wondered why a faery would work for us. What did we give the faery in return for its hard work? It didn't seem fair. Delphi and I told him that we paid the faery in sweets and that he had upset the faery by not acknowledging its existence.

"The only way to appease the faery now was to make it all the treats it could eat and leave it on the counter before he went to bed. If all the sweets were gone by morning, it had worked. So Grandfather spent the evening in the kitchen, making batches of cookies. When he woke up the next morning, sure enough, not a bite remained. Delphi and I had snuck out of bed and eaten all the sweets at once! We were so full we could hardly move! My mother nearly had to roll me to church!"

Sometimes she lapsed into silence, after she'd wiped tears of laughter from her eyes, and Iain always reached over and gave her hand a pat. James never understood how such happy, loud stories could make her so quiet.

"I wish you could meet them all," Kallista would say wistfully when she spoke of her large extended family and the Romani community that used to be prevalent in the city. "They would love you."

"Why can't we meet them?" James would ask. The children at school always complained about having to visit their grandparents and having to listen to their anecdotes about the days before the Cataclysm, and James thought they were lucky to have such a privilege.

Kallista's explanations were always vague, and she quickly changed the subject. When they got a little older, she would tell them simply, "My father wanted me to marry someone else. But I fell in love with your father, and that was that."

James wanted to ask "Why?" He had asked Iain once, and Iain had smacked the back of his head sharply. He didn't understand why she loved their father, and he didn't think it was fair of Iain to punish him for it. But Iain had always maintained his loyalty to their father.

It was not that their parents did not get along—they coexisted with ease and supported each other. Their father was more like a specter drifting through their house than a participant, rarely joining them. He was quiet and cold and impossible for James to understand.

All James had in common with his father was his green eyes and brown hair. James's complexion was dark olive brown like his mother and brother's, and he had unfortunately seemed to inherit his mother's slight frame and height as well, though he was still hopeful he'd have another growth spurt (and that Iain would stop teasing him about it).

However, the brothers had matured at the same rate when it came to their bedtime stories. When they were children, Iain had always been infatuated with tales of brave knights who took oaths to serve and help people, and he would read Arthurian stories like he needed them to breathe. But as James and Iain grew older, they began to ask less and less for fictional stories and more for personal ones.

"I want to hear a true story," Iain had whined one night.

"Who is to say these stories aren't true?" Kallista had asked, clutching their usual book of Arthurian tales to her chest. Then she'd chuckled at Iain. "And I thought you loved this book, Iain. You used to play knights with your brother all the time."

"Yeah, well, a Rom could never be anything like a knight anyway, right?" Iain asked with a shrug.

Kallista looked severe. "Who told you that?"

Iain was tightlipped. James had wanted to speak for him and tell their mother it was the Prance brothers who had said it, but he knew Iain would be cross with him if he did.

"That's ridiculous." Kallista shook her head. "Us Roma can be whatever we want, just like anyone else. We have been everything. Plenty of Roma have been soldiers and served a king or government."

"Even in the Iron Infantry?"

She smiled. "If not, I bet you'll be the first."

"I knew it was rubbish," Iain stated, settling back down with a grin. "Anyone can help people, can't they? That's what I wanna do."

After a moment, Kallista had conceded to tell the boys a true story instead. When she asked what they would like to hear about, James had piped up, "Faeries."

Kallista had gotten up and closed the bedroom door, as if afraid someone might hear what she was about to say. "My parents used to tell Delphina and me scary stories of the Fae. It was their way of making sure we stayed inside at night like good girls. But I've heard just as many pleasant stories."

James had leaned in close to hear his mother's story. She told them of how, in her vitsa in Ukraine, a young Kalderash boy had gotten lost outside overnight in the winter and how when they'd found him the next morning, he said strange magic lights had guided him to a warm place to sleep, where little faeries had watched over him.

Iain had grimaced.

James had shivered. Magic and Fae were two nearly forbidden subjects in their home due to their father's dislike of the faeries and their mother's insistence that magic was evil and contaminated.

"But isn't magic bad?" James had asked.

Kallista had thought for a long moment. "Not in all cases, with Fae magic. It depends on their motivation, I suppose. If the motivation was good, like saving that boy, then I don't think it was wrong. His parents were certainly grateful their prayers had been answered."

"But have you met a faery?" James had asked impatiently.

"Yes. A few," Kallista had admitted slowly. "The most recent was a goblin woman. And I believe... she was trying to help me. Yes. I think she was," she murmured softly, her words fading as if lost in thought but looked as if she wanted to say more.

When James and Iain had both demanded more information, Kallista had said it was a tale for another night, perhaps, and that it was time for them to say their prayers and go to bed. But she never did tell them about her own encounter with the goblin. She left a week later.

James wished he had been more observant as a child so he might have noticed if something was wrong. Nothing stood out to him as abnormal about the day she left—nothing that explained six years without contact.

The first week had passed slowly. With their mother gone and their father working odd hours, Iain had taken it upon himself to care for James and the house. Iain had to learn quickly to prepare meals without help. It had been fun for a while with more freedom. Then one week had turned into two, and James missed his mother so much that his chest ached. Iain had become perpetually anxious, shedding his carefree nature like a snakeskin.

Whenever the boys dared to ask their father if he'd heard from their mother yet, he would reply that she must have decided to stay longer. Weeks of waiting had morphed into months and then into insidious routine and complacency. Life without Mum had become normalized to everyone except James.

James had always thought that Iain had been serious when they would stay awake planning to leave the city one day, travel the countryside, and find their mother. They would explore the country and new cultures, encountering wild nature and Fae. Now that James was older, he suspected that his brother only said those things to ease his mind. But even when Iain no longer entertained conversations of adventure, James kept planning.

This morning, James woke up far before the sun rose, hoping to finish his morning chores in time to visit the bookshop before school.

He had only been scrubbing the kitchen counters with bleach for a few minutes, grumbling the whole time, before deciding that he deserved a break.

As James sat on the sofa in the living room with a book in his hands, he soon forgot all about his chores, getting lost in the words. It was only when he heard the click of the front door unlocking that he realized he'd been reading a while. Iain was coming in the door from his overnight shift.

James scrambled upright, tossed the book on the couch, and covered it with a throw pillow before Iain trudged into the room.

"You look awful," James blurted out.

His older brother's dark brown eyes were half-closed from staying awake all night, and there was a bruise over his right eyebrow that was swelling.

Iain merely shrugged in response, not seeming to care, and threw himself down on the couch beside James. He sat up after a moment in confusion and reached behind his back, pulling out the book and squinting at it.

"What're you doing with this?"

"Reading it. What else would I be doing with it?" James asked sarcastically.

"Unless you're going to use the book to beat dirt from the rugs, I suggest you put it back until later, yeah?" When James sighed, Iain suggested, "Or I could beat you with the book, if that's what it'll take for you to do your chores."

"I was doing chores," James protested. "I've cleaned most of the kitchen."

"What about your laundry?" Iain nodded toward the back garden out the window where the clothesline outside was clearly bare.

James groaned. Laundry was always an arduous task. He had thought it was the same level of tedium for everyone—it was only when he had complained about the task at school that he learned differently. Most of his peers didn't even wash their own laundry (their mothers did it for them), and no one ever told them they were supposed to separate the upper body clothing from the trousers or wash everyone's clothing separately.

James wondered if Iain knew that he sounded like a mother hen. "You know, I think you just like to order me around. It's not like the house is that dirty anyway."

Iain wandered into the kitchen as he said, "You think I get a kick out of this or something? This old place would collapse if we didn't keep it neat. We've got to bleach the hell out of everything, or the mold will come back. And you can't be going to school in unwashed clothes, can you?"

James huffed but knew Iain was right. Iain was always repairing things in the home haphazardly. Sometimes James wondered if Iain didn't tend to the house or buy groceries, if he or Dad would even notice if the house caved in, or if either of them would eat at all without Iain to take care of them. Luckily for them, Iain seemed to enjoy cooking a great deal even if he did not enjoy cleaning.

Iain returned a moment later with a dish towel with a few ice cubes in it and pressed it against his face. It was a surprisingly common sight.

"What happened?" James asked, leaning in with interest. "Did it involve a faery?"

Although Dad was always going on about how dangerous faeries were, how they were all the same, James knew better. He'd learned a lot more from books he'd collected than anything anyone taught him in school, and he grew more fascinated by faeries with every book he read. The banned books were the most informative, which was why James thought they were banned in the first place.

"A faery wouldn't conk you," Iain said with a wry smile. "They'd just use their magic. Much sneakier." He tossed the dish towel onto the table. "Anyway, it was some drunken idiot that clocked me when I was trying to break up a row. He's worse off for it."

"That sounds really urgent." James slumped in his seat. "Good thing we have the Iron Wardens for that."

"The entire city would be doomed without us, yeah?" Iain chuckled. "Listen, it's not the most interesting job, but it pays well enough."

It made little sense that Iain had decided to join the Iron Wardens when he had always yammered on about joining the Iron Infantry and facing real dangers. The Iron Infantry was reserved for combat, various missions all over England, and protecting the king while stationed in the city. On the other hand, the Wardens were more like police than anything else, and while they were in the same group as the Iron Infantry recruits during basic training, they did not have to train as long. The most they were equipped to handle was riot control and a few scuffles. Mostly they made sure no one was out past curfew. Iain had always mockingly called them glorified senior prefects.

"The Iron Infantry pays well too," James pointed out. "And they at least help protect people from monsters, and they protect the king."

Iain smiled tiredly. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Me gone, you'd have no one to tell you to do your chores."

When James did not respond, Iain whacked him playfully in the back of the head with the book. James swore and rubbed at the back of his skull furiously, even though it hadn't stung too badly.

"Oh, come on," Iain said. "It can't have hurt that bad."

"Is that what they teach you in the Iron Wardens, to be a bully?"

"That, and to clean the barracks every day." Iain exhaled softly, turning the book over in his hands. "I know you've got a grudge against them, but the Iron Wardens have done good in this city. Things aren't how they were before."

James scoffed under his breath but refrained from commenting about how sorely mistaken he thought his brother to be.

"Besides," Iain added with a yawn, "Dad recommended me for the job, and he wanted me close to home. How could I refuse?"

Very easily.

James couldn't understand why Iain would just drop his near lifelong aspiration just because their father suggested he join the Iron Wardens instead, but he supposed there were lots of aspects of his brother that he would never understand. He did not understand why Iain still sought their father's approval.

"You start school today, yeah?" Iain asked after a pause. James nodded. "Are you prepared?"

"Of course I'm prepared," James said, gesturing to his pajamas. "And I'm sure smelling of bleach will, uh, make a good impression."

"Good," Iain said, clearly not noticing James's sarcasm or lack of proper clothing. "I'm completely knackered." He stood up and stretched. "I'm going to sleep."

James perked up. He might be able to leave in time to visit the bookshop after all.

Iain held up the book threateningly, though his eyes glinted with teasing. "Finish those chores. I mean it." He grinned before tossing the book to James, who barely managed to catch it against his chest.

"All right. Fine." He had no intention of doing that.

At the age of fourteen, James knew the city well enough to get around on his own. He found that he could maneuver through a crowd of people without being noticed if he wanted to. He walked along the busy pavement, passed people without even brushing their clothing, darted expertly across streets and past cars, and taking little-known shortcuts through various buildings. People didn't pay him much mind usually.

Today being overlooked was an advantage; he knew what he was doing could get him in serious trouble if he was caught.

A secondhand bookshop was located in the more urban part of the city, crammed between two convenience stores. It was one of the only buildings on the street that was not guarded by an iron fence to keep out Fae, which had intrigued James enough to venture inside the first time last year. By this point, James was a regular customer, and the shop owner gave him a little nod whenever he came by.

The bell over the door chimed as James peered inside the shop. There was one room up front that was completely crammed with books—on shelves, stacked on the floor, piled in bins—and a smaller employee room that was roped off.

James covered his nose briefly with the brightly colored, dizzyingly patterned scarf around his neck. The air was musty, smelling of mildew and yellowed paper and the flowery air freshener the owner used to mask the scent of smoke.

"Morning, lad." The shopkeeper grunted at him from behind the register. He rolled his eyes at James covering his nose before stamping out his cigarette hastily on the counter. He squinted at James. "You aren't bunking off, are you?"

James shook his head. "School's not for another half hour."

The man raised an eyebrow at him but then shrugged. He waved his hand dismissively in the direction of the back room. "Got some new ones that might interest you. Just don't go making a mess."

How could I possibly make this place more of a wreck? James wondered incredulously, but he bit his tongue.

An elderly woman entered the shop and asked the owner to point her in the direction of gardening books. When she spotted James, her eyes narrowed and she frowned. James wilted shyly under her gaze and, not knowing what else to do, gave her a little wave, hoping she'd stop staring.

The woman leaned over the counter toward the owner and said loudly enough for James to hear, "If I were you, I'd keep a close eye on that one."

James's throat tightened. He tried his best to ignore the ignorant and unfounded claims about the Roma—that they were inherently tied to magic and faeries, that they were thieves—and he tried to give people the benefit of the doubt. He rarely sought out the darker intentions in people—that was his brother's recent undertaking.

But there were other reasons besides his heritage that caused people to whisper and gawk.

James was not oblivious to the unkind whispers surrounding his mother and her absence, no matter how hard Iain fought to protect him from them. He had overheard a number of theories from his peers as to why she never came back, the most absurd being that she joined a group of faery cultists to connect to her nonexistent magical roots.

Wordlessly, James ducked into the back room where he found an unmarked cardboard box on the floor. The owner sometimes saved books for James to dig through that he would have discarded otherwise—books that were too ramshackle and decayed, books that were taboo, or books that were banned. Sitting down cross-legged on the floor, James got to work.

Foraging through his bag, he pushed past books on plants, animals, wilderness survival, and a thick volume of maps—Britain, Neo-London, the old city of London before it was bombed in the Cataclysm—and produced a heavily used notebook. He flipped past pages of notes on the countryside and patrol times of the Iron Guard and found the section on magic. Years of research would finally be put to use soon.

James rummaged gingerly through the box at his feet. Some of the book spines were brittle as bones, while others were gossamer as a cobweb and seemed they would be reduced to dust if he grabbed them too eagerly. One book caught his eye. The script was mostly faded on the blue woven cover, save for the faint shimmering shape of a winged faery that was once outlined in brilliant silver. He grinned, tracing the indentation with his fingers.

The worn, spiraling lettering read: Servants of The Winter Court: Unseelie Faeries and Their Ilk.

Snickering at the rather dramatic title, James began flipping through the first few pages. The inside was in good condition, with not a single torn or missing page. He leaned down and took a huge whiff of the book, breathing in the smell of old paper. He coughed once and then began to read.

James knew a little about the Winter Court already; he knew that a king and queen ruled over it but that they were much less organized than the Summer Court. They were supposedly located in Shetland, north of Scotland and the Summer Court. Both Unseelie faeries and monsters of all sorts were allied with the Winter Court, the monsters roaming throughout the island unchecked and untethered by their Court. There had been more and more monster sightings down south with each passing year.

Pen and ink illustrations flitted through his vision as James opened the book and flipped through the pages. Sharp, high-contrast images of dark elves, nymphs, red caps, wolflike spirits, trolls, and other creatures, gaunt faces and hollowed eyes shadowed deeply in black ink. One creature in particular caught James's eye (besides the rather risqué nymph illustration): an odd type of giant known to terrorize Scotland. It had only one leg, one arm, and one eye. According to the text, it had slaughtered whole villages in the past.

"The Fachan," James murmured with a disbelieving grin, running his thumb over the image. "Aren't you a big ugly chap?"

There was more: the curses, spells, and hexes cast by these creatures. How some spells could cause a burst of magic, and some curses could blot it out. How some magic was sealed for years, only awoken by the touch of a powerful or skilled faery of either Court.

The minutes were eaten away, and before James new it, it was time for him to head to school. He decided to buy the book as he barely had time to copy down any useful information into his notebook. As he made his way to the counter, he smiled at the elderly woman from before as she gave him a once-over.

"It's free, lad," the shopkeeper insisted when James began opening his wallet. "I'd have to throw it out otherwise."

James nodded gratefully. "That's, um, a relief," he said brightly, turning to look at the elderly woman. "Now I don't have to steal it!"

The woman swiftly turned away, her face flushing deeply. James almost felt badly about embarrassing her. Almost. He was glad his brother was not there to hear him give an old woman cheek, knowing that Iain would either laugh or drag him from the shop by his ear. He did not want to risk the latter.

As James started toward the door, the bell chimed again. The shopkeeper reached across the counter and grabbed James's arm so sharply that he winced. "Put that book away. Now." The shopkeeper hissed, his eyes wide and fearful. "Don't let them see it."

Two Iron Wardens shuffled into the shop, glancing around with no attitude of purpose. James quickly tucked the book away into his school bag and focused his gaze on the floor. He tensed as they strode past. His eyes flicked to their batons at their belts, and he knew from Iain's experience in basic training that they were taught to use them efficiently.

"You get to school now, lad," the shopkeeper said, never looking away from the Iron Wardens. "Go on. Don't let them bother you."

The Iron Wardens began to ask the shopkeeper about a faery in the area that had been seen loitering around. James hurried out of the shop, clutching his satchel to his chest, and did not slow his pace until he reached the school.

"All right, mouse?" a woman's voice asked cheerfully.

James halted on the first massive stone step leading to the grand school entrance, his feet suddenly heavy. Just as he was recovering from his brush with the Iron Wardens, his heart rate began to pick up again.

He did not need to turn around to know who was speaking—the loathed nickname was evidence enough. She called him "mouse" because he'd always been short and slight, and she thought that was amusing for some reason.

The last time he'd seen Elaine three years ago, she had looked rough, haggard, ravenous—the same way all the Pan consumers, hidden in the corners of the city, looked when they'd reached the height of their addiction, when human food was not fulfilling enough anymore. Pan was faery's fruit, meant to nourish faeries only. If humans ate the right amount of Pan, it could be a pleasurable but addictive experience. But if too much was ingested, it became a poison.

Three years ago, she'd dropped his barely conscious brother on the side of the road like rubbish and peeled off, tires screeching.

James didn't reply, out of a mixture of stubbornness and unease. She had always made him unsettled—by her synthetic joy and jittery demeanor. He couldn't see her out of the corner of his eye. He figured she must have been waiting outside the gates.

Realizing that James was not going to acknowledge her, she retorted to his silence, "You've never been one for greetings or niceties, have you, mouse?"

"I've got to go now," James ground out. He began trudging up the steps once more, quicker this time.

"Tell your brother I'll be waiting for him. Tell him I just want a chat. That's all. Please."

James had no intention of doing that. He leaped up the stairs and into the building. Somehow, facing his first day back at school, friendless and ignored, didn't seem so daunting. Besides, he wasn't planning on staying for the entire semester anyway. Soon he'd be far away from Neo-London. Soon he'd find his mother, and everything would be right again.

Chapter Four

"You'd best close that gaping cave of yours, lass," the grocer teased as they drove through the large gates of Neo-London.

Deirdre didn't hear him, and her mouth remained ajar as she leaned out the window, staring up at the towering walls of the city, her heart beating loudly with anticipation.

The city of Neo-London was built like a fortress against the southern shore, surrounded by high grey walls, taller than the oldest oak trees. While there were several narrow, one-lane exits and entrances, each entrance featured a barred, sturdy iron gate, half as high as the walls of stone and concrete and nearly as thick.

Deirdre sat back down as they drove into the city into a busy main thoroughfare. All around were narrow buildings, crammed together. The shortest and cheapest were nearest the entrance of the city and were built of wood. As they drove toward the heart of the city and the roads got cleaner and wider, the buildings were increasingly taller and made of brick or stone. But no matter the material, size, or quality of each residence, apartment, restaurant, or business office, each was surrounded by an iron fence with a lockable gate.

"Are they so afraid they'll be broken into?" Deirdre asked the grocer, pointing at the high gate of a narrow stone house.

The grocer glanced at the iron barrier, shaking his head. "No, it's to keep the faeries away. They can't abide by iron. So when there's no gate, that's one way to tell when you're entering a place where one of them live. Look, down on our first left."

Leaning forward so her nose almost touched the windshield, Deirdre saw they were coming to a large roundabout, the road splitting off in six directions. They got onto the roundabout, slowed by congested traffic. The first thing she saw on the left curb beside them was a tall brick house with no gate around it. The road that went down past it was lined by brick and wood buildings and full of people. Bright banners with designs Deirdre did not recognize hung from house to house, and there were almost no cars around, the street packed with people.

"That's so pretty!" she exclaimed, giggling into her fingers.

"That's Ferriers Town, where the fair folk live," the grocer said, slowing his truck as the flow of traffic briefly halted.

Deirdre peered at the nearest group of faeries passing them. There was nothing especially unique about their clothing; they dressed as the villagers near the orphanage had. And while some had round, tiny black eyes or exceptionally large noses or hair colors that were unnatural, aside from that they seemed human.

"But they don't have pointed ears or anything," she observed, watching as a short fellow with a thick white beard and a rosy nose hurried in front of them and down into Ferriers Town. "Are you sure they're faeries?"

The grocer chuckled at first but stopped when he spotted a tall, wiry woman passing by with dark red hair so thin she was beginning to bald. Deirdre thought she was human until the woman glanced at them, revealing deep yellow eyes with tiny pupils. The grocer quickly locked his truck doors.

"What's wrong?" Deirdre asked.

The grocer just grunted, gesturing at the tall faery with a jerk of his head. "As you can see, not all fair folk have pointed ears, lass. And not all of them look much different from us. Those are the ones most likely to cause trouble."

Deirdre frowned, looking back at the throng of faeries. The yellow-eyed faery had disappeared. She did see a couple of others that had the oddest head jewelry; it made them look like they had small, thin horns.

As the traffic began to inch along again, she spotted one skinny woman, hunched over, with long white hair and dark green skin.

She gaped again, turning in her seat. The woman met her gaze and grinned. Most of her teeth were missing, and those that remained were sharp and thin, like a fish. She raised a hand toward Deirdre, as if to wave to her, but then she pointed a bony finger at the crowded street of Ferriers Town. Following her direction, Deirdre looked just in time to see a small group of military personnel stride through, the faeries scurrying out of their way like leaves being blown by the wind. One of the soldiers was pulling along a short, thin-boned, light-haired woman. Her skin was white and without any blemish, and her abnormally large eyes were a rosy gold color. Though her expression was stricken, she did not struggle.

"Careful of the fair folk, lass," the grocer chided as Deirdre watched the soldiers head toward a large, covered truck. "It's best to avoid Ferriers Town if you don't have any business there."

"But why? I didn't think they were all that bad." She twisted to try to look behind her seat to see if the green-skinned woman was still at the corner, but she was lost from sight.

"I do considerable business with some of them," the grocer said. "But that's the thing, you have to know what you're about. If you go in there aimlessly, you'll get caught up in mischief for certain."

"Some of them looked so human. I wasn't expecting that."

The grocer nodded solemnly at her. "Like I said, those are the ones you need to be wary of. After all, they may look and act like us, but they really aren't meant to live with us."

Deirdre looked back out the window at more iron-gated buildings, frowning, wondering how dangerous that white-skinned faery was and what law she had broken.

Just a few minutes later, the grocer dropped her off at the curb of her new school. It was a large stone building, almost the size of her entire orphanage. It and the small yard around it was surrounded by an iron fence taller than she was, and its enormous gate was wide open; a stream of students trickled past them, heading into the building. Her mouth fell open again, and unable to look away from the building, she fumbled with her small suitcase as the grocer handed it to her.

"Take care, lass," the grocer said before driving away.

She turned around, waving. "Bye! Thank you!"

He waved in reply before disappearing into the traffic.

Spinning back around, she followed the nearest bunch of students walking through the iron gate. It towered over her, its spikes looking sharp and cruel as wolf's fangs, its bars hard and unrelenting. If she got trapped behind it, she could never get out.

Her stomach began to churn.

Suddenly gripped with a fear of being left alone with the iron fence and gate, she scurried up the stairs and rushed inside after the other students.

The inside halls were wide, high, and impressive, filled with light both from the glass windows and the ceiling lights. And it was filled with more teenagers than Deirdre had ever seen at one time.

There were boys and girls, though she noticed there were just a few more of the latter than the former. They roamed about, usually either alone, looking hostile and sullen or anxious and wide-eyed, or they roamed in small packs. Aside from a few small groups of chatting boys and girls who were clearly already good friends, no one looked pleased to be there or even pleased to be alive.

Deirdre walked in, smiling at the lively chatter and happy shrieks of girls greeting each other. Not wanting to get overrun by the crowd, she hung along the walls as a large pack of older teenage boys passed her, alternately hooting in laughter and talking in mumbles. They all ignored her, save one who briefly looked her over from bottom to top and then turned his head to examine the next girl in his line of sight.

Following his gaze, Deirdre's mouth fell open for the umpteenth time that day. The girls, she now finally realized, were barely wearing anything. She took a step back, almost flattened against the wall, as she realized some of the boys had the same fashion sense. There were bare knees, bare arms, bare shoulders, even partially bare chests everywhere.

Don't they get cold? she wondered, bewildered, watching a girl wearing a tube top and short trousers pass. Sure, this is the southern coast, but it's not that warm! Are they CRAZY? Or maybe they're faeries!

Immediately she shook her head. No, that doesn't make any sense. Maybe they're all foreign, like from Iceland or something. Mother Superior always said it was really warm here compared to Iceland...

Scratching the back of her head, she began to walk down the hall again, trying to acclimate to the strangeness, looking for some unoccupied adult to direct her. But all the grownups she saw were already busy with a handful or more of other students. She sucked in her lips, watching one of the chaperoning adults talking overenthusiastically with a group of younger teens, wondering what she should do.

Looking ahead, she spotted the most unusually dressed boy. He looked a bit younger than most of the other boys, and he was standing on his own. His clothes did not seem to fit him; his vividly patterned scarf looked too big, and his trousers were rolled up.

What a strange-looking boy. A smile flitted on her face. But I must look pretty strange, too, compared to everyone else...

At first she hesitated to go over and speak to him; she was used to socializing almost entirely with other girls. But the expression of vague concern on his face, coupled with his flowery scarf, reminded her distinctly of Iris, in both confused expression and fashion sense. After also noting that he did not look particularly nervous or aggressive, Deirdre steeled herself and approached him.

"Hullo!" she said, smiling, getting his attention, and then she asked the first thing that popped into her mind, "Your scarf is so weird and pretty, are you a faery?" Then she remembered what the grocer had said about human-looking faeries being dangerous.

Shoot.

To her surprise the boy began to laugh, but it was a weak, surprised laugh that quickly dwindled into stony silence. He looked everywhere but at her, reminding her of some of the shyest girls back at the orphanage.

So she prompted him, saying, "I guess not, though... it was kind of a dumb question, huh?" She laughed at herself.

When he finally looked at her again, his eyes were narrowed slightly. "You're not, uh, having a go at me, are you? It's difficult to tell sometimes."

"Having a... what?" Deirdre tilted her head. "I don't know what you mean."

"I guess not." The boy let out a relieved sigh, smiling. "But no, I'm not a faery. They do look pretty though. I mean, pretty cool."

Thinking back to the near-bald faery she saw on the road, Deirdre frowned. "I guess so..."

"I once saw them performing street magic," the boy continued. "They froze and unfroze this stream of water. They can do all these things that have no clear explanation. It's kind of cool."

"I didn't know that! I guess magic could do that sort of stuff. Neat..." She scratched the back of her head again, her gaze falling on his scarf, and she pointed to it, saying, "That really is different-looking, isn't it?"

The boy looked down at the scarf, holding it out in his hands. "Yeah, it's..." His gaze snapped up at her, eyes suddenly suspicious, and he lowered the scarf, hands at his side again.

"What's wrong?" Deirdre asked, tilting her head after a few moments of silence.

"Well, it..." His mouth twitched a smile as he continued, "It's my mother's scarf."

"Oh. Is that normal down here in the city, boys wearing their mother's clothes?"

He stared at her for a moment before asking, "Where did you come from, exactly?"

"Trinity orphanage, south of old London. I just got here today."

His mouth silently formed an "oh," then after another few seconds of awkward silence, he gestured ungracefully down the hall. "Well, I could... I can show you around. If you want?"

Immediately Deirdre answered "Yes!" perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, because his eyes briefly widened in alarm. But he still gestured for her to follow, beginning to head down the hall, and she did so, staying on his heels.

* * *

As James led his new acquaintance down the various school hallways, pointing out various classrooms and amenities, he could not help but feel an unfamiliar burst of confidence. Here he was, showing an older student around and actually carrying on a conversation with her. Well, bits of conversation.

James could not fathom why a girl as interesting and cool as her did not have a throng of students who were eager to get to know her. She was new and from outside the city. She was even unafraid to mention faeries at school.

"And this is the only working drinking fountain," James pointed out once they'd reached the end of a long hallway of classrooms. He halted so suddenly that Deirdre bumped into him.

"Oh," Deirdre said happily. "Thank you for showing me around... um..." She trailed off, and her face began to redden, her pale blue eyes looking at him expectantly. James realized with horror that he had not introduced himself.

"I'm— I'm James. James Callaghan."

Deirdre sighed with relief. She held out her hand to shake. "I'm Deirdre."

"Deirdre..." James merely stared at her hand. He waited for her to say her last name but quickly remembered that she was an orphan and might not know it. He struggled for something to say. "That's a nice name. Irish?"

She lowered her hand before nodding in reply. "Yeah, probably. I think so."

"Uh, I guess you wouldn't know, would you? I mean, since you grew up at, um, Trinity." He bit his lip. "I've never been there, obviously. I've heard of it though. I've heard it's... nice. I mean, I've heard the owner really cares about maintaining the building."

That sounds like a normal thing to say.

Deirdre giggled. "Oh yeah, Mother Superior always makes us keep it spotless, night and day! You never know when an inspector will pop in to check things. And they are SO critical; they never miss a single spot or leak! It's a lot of work since the buildings are so old. But it's worth it!"

James then took a look at Deirdre's schedule (she had completely forgotten about the folder with the schedule, stowed away in her small suitcase) and pointed out which classroom held her first lesson. After that, he headed off to his first lessons of the day.

He wondered if he could get used to the idea of staying in Neo-London if he had someone like Deirdre around to talk to, someone almost like a friend. But it was a fleeting thought. He couldn't let something like this change his mind, even if it meant giving up a potential friend.

James made a note in his composition book to ask Deirdre about the environment outside the orphanage. She had to have ventured out at some point in her life and probably knew some good information on which roads and paths to travel. Perhaps it was fate, or just pure good luck, that they had met when they had.

* * *

After parting with James, Deirdre headed to her new form room. The form tutor arrived shortly and gave them a brief overview of their classes. As the professor, a grey-haired, tall man with a slight lisp described the courses, she began to wonder if she was caught in an elaborate prank of some sort. Almost all the classes were focused on material that she had learned two years ago, save for a couple that covered information she needed to redo thanks to her low grades in particular subjects.

When they were given permission to leave, Deirdre got up and made a beeline for the professor, introducing herself quickly.

"Oh, the Trinity transfer, hm?" the professor said as a greeting.

"Yes, and I think there's been a mistake," Deirdre explained. "I know my grades were bad, but I don't think I'm supposed to be in all these old classes."

"So you think the Sisters made a mistake?"

"Oh, no. No, I think there was some confusion here, you know... like, the history course... all that basic, recent history is for students in their first year of secondary. I just need to retake the very last history class because I had a hard time interpreting some of the source material."

The professor's eyebrows shot up. "Source material? As in primary sources?"

"Yeah, like diaries and modern records and stuff."

He chuckled. "I'm afraid you'll find that looking at primary sources is... discouraged in this school. The board believes it's too difficult for anyone until they get to university."

Deirdre pursed her lips, then asked in a low, confidential voice, "Is this a remedial school?"

After blinking twice, the professor straightened and said, half to himself, "You know, I don't know whether to be amused or offended by that." He continued more directly, "I assure you this is one of the best state schools in Neo-London, though I suppose it may seem dull in comparison to what a private school has to offer. Now, you'd best be headed to the dormitories; they're on the far side of the campus. I'll see you next week."

Recognizing the hint, Deirdre turned and trudged out of the classroom, dragging her hands down her face, foreseeing a year of academic boredom ahead of her. But she had little time to mope, as a stampede of students breaking for the exit of the school nearly toppled her over. Immediately she retreated to the side of the room.

For a while she simply watched the teenagers hurrying past her; they all looked far merrier than they had a few hours ago. It struck her that all of them were headed home; they weren't staying in the dormitories. They had a mother, father, and siblings to return to.

No wonder they look so happy, she thought, hugging her satchel to her chest, her throat suddenly feeling tight.

She looked for a sign of James's colorful scarf in the crowd, but after a couple of minutes, she began to wonder if he had already left. The hallway was beginning to empty, everyone leaving for home.

Sighing and quickly wiping her eyes, she turned, heading toward the dormitories when she heard a familiar voice calling her name.

"Deirdre!"

She looked over to see James waving her over from down the hall.

Her face brightened instantly, and she waved back before bounding over to him. "Oh, James! I thought you had left already! Everyone else was going home..."

"Well, I was just about to, but my brother's late picking me up. I know my way around the city—probably better than he does—but he likes walking me home anyway."

"You have a brother? Is he older than you?"

James nodded.

"Ohh, that's nice." She sighed. "I've always wished I had one."

James made a face. "He's not all that great. Bit of a pain, really. Hopefully you won't meet him."

"Really? Why?"

James just shrugged.

Deirdre tilted her head, thinking, Is his brother a jerk or something? But I thought everyone in a family was similar... But then again, what do I know? And I remember hearing that there are sometimes "bad seeds." Maybe his brother is one of those?

"I should probably go wait outside," James said, interrupting her thoughts. "It's a bit stuffy in here. Do you want to come with me? I mean, unless you have something else to do..."

"Yes!" she replied; his face fell, and she quickly added, "I mean, no! I mean I don't have anything else to do."

James just nodded in reply, looking a bit thrown off by her enthusiastic reaction. He reminded her of one of the oldest, quietest girls in the orphanage who always was unsettled when anyone spoke louder than a hint above a whisper. Deirdre had enjoyed annoying her by refusing to lower her voice.

I should be careful to not tease James though, she thought as she followed the boy outside. He is younger than me, after all.

They stepped outside; the late afternoon sun was bright and almost warm as they sat on the stone steps.

A few moments passed and James said nothing.

Guessing he was just shy, Deirdre asked, "Did you have a nice day, with your classes and everything?"

He looked a bit surprised by the question but answered, "It was 'kay."

After a few moments of waiting for more information, she prompted, "Was there a class that seemed interesting?"

He shrugged. "Nothing special, really. It's not like they teach you anything that important." He went quiet again.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Fourteen."

He really shouldn't be THIS shy at fourteen...

"And you?" James asked, making eye contact for a second.

"Huh?"

"How old are you?"

"Oh, I'm seventeen and a quarter; my birthday is in May. Or at least they think it is. We can't really say for sure, which is too bad. Still, I like May... the birthstone is an emerald, and I love emeralds! Though I've only ever seen a few in town. Though I guess I'll see a lot more here..." She looked at him. "What month were you born in?"

"December."

"Ohh, that's a tough one! December has like two... three birthstones," she said, counting them on her fingers. "I can't remember the names, but they're all blue. I think. And I mean, I can remember May's birthstone, but that's easy because that's mine. We had to learn all this for some home economics courses, the ones where we learned sewing and all that." She laughed at the memory. "I was awful at it! My hand got so cramped when I sewed..."

"We don't really do sewing here," James said, gesturing at the school.

She looked back up at the tall building. "No, thank goodness. Everything seems like it'll be pretty easy..." She sighed. "And pretty boring."

She rested her elbows on her knees, cupping her face in her hands. The other students had almost entirely dispersed; anyone remaining was hurrying away from the building.

After a while, James suggested they wait by the gate. Deirdre agreed; on their way over, she spotted one person who was headed toward the gate from the street. The person's outfit was familiar.

"Isn't that a soldier?" she asked, pointing at him.

James straightened and peered, spotting the soldier. "Yeah, that's..." He trailed off as another person came into view; a skinny young woman, trailing the soldier, talking loudly at him.

"Why not, Iain?" the young woman asked. "You'll get bored of playing pretend soldier eventually, and when you do—"

"I'm not interested."

"Look, if you're still upset about what you think happened—"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't know what happened because you were too trashed. So you should just forget about it."

Instead of continuing to the gate, James veered off course, ducking behind some large clumps of ivy that grew on the fence. "Get down," he urged Deirdre, gesturing quickly with his finger.

"Why are you hiding?" she asked, frowning and looking from James to the soldier. She realized he was not much older than she was, and she pointed again. "Is that your brother?"

Hearing her, Iain and the woman stopped talking, heading through the gate and onto the school grounds. James popped up from his hiding place, looking sullen.

Iain jerked his head. "Come on, James. Let's go. We've got errands to run."

James hesitated; Deirdre looked from him to the soldier.

This must be his brother. But why is James so nervous? Maybe he's a big bully, Deirdre thought, looking over Iain critically.

"I don't think I've seen you around before, Red," the young woman said, stepping forward. "I like your outfit. Where'd you get it?"

"Oh, this?" She briefly glanced down at her clothes. "This is normal for young women at Trinity orphanage. We make them ourselves... Well, except for me. I'm no good with sewing." She smiled at the young woman. "But the material is good; it holds together, even when you're hiking!"

"Right... Well, you might find more nicely made things like that in Ferriers Town. I could take you there sometime." The woman flashed a smile. "I'm Elaine, by the way."

Deirdre was about to give her name in reply when Iain spoke up.

"Elaine, you'd better get going. You have no reason to be here. If I catch you again—"

"You'll have me arrested?" she asked in a teasing voice. Deirdre noticed that her gaze was never focused; it shifted constantly, as if it was impossible for her to focus on anything.

"That's right," Iain said firmly. Elaine's teasing smile faded slightly. Iain continued, "The Iron Wardens will be receiving a tip about a sketchy figure lurking around the school, around kids."

She laughed. "I don't know if I can resist, as seriously as I take your threat. Just look at her." She gestured carelessly at Deirdre. "She looks like she could use a good time, especially after being raised by nuns."

"What does that mean?" Deirdre asked, feeling as though she may have been insulted (but not quite sure).

Elaine ignored her and kept going. "I could take her around, show her what the city is really like. Or I could just take you around instead, and you could keep her from all the fun."

Iain's expression grew dark. "I mean it. Leave her out of this."

"Sure you do, love. When you get bored of playing soldier, you know where to find me."

"Don't try to reach me through my brother again. If you have something to say to me, then go to me directly."

"Got it, officer." Elaine began to head off, saying over her shoulder to Deirdre, "I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon, Red."

"Okay," she replied a little uncertainly. She wondered if she had missed something important.

"Don't count on it." Iain jerked a thumb at the exit. "James, we've got to run errands and then get you home before my shift starts. Let's leg it."

James immediately replied, "I thought you were going to run errands after your nap. Did you get lazy?"

"I was going to run errands, but I discovered that someone didn't finish his chores, and I had to finish them."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

James turned to Deirdre. "Thanks for waiting with me. I'll see you next week, I guess?"

She immediately nodded. "Yes!"

He hesitated, then asked, "You... won't be going to Ferriers Town, will you?"

"Like Elaine said? Well, I didn't think normal people were supposed to go in, if you didn't have any business. That's what the grocer said, the one who drove me here."

"But there's a lot to do!" James eyes lit up. "I mean, it's filled with faeries, so there are all kinds of unexpected things. They have all sorts of things to do and buy..."

"That sounds nice. Have you been there before?"

"Well... no..."

"So he doesn't know what he's talking about," Iain cut in, pushing his brother on the back of the head. He looked at Deirdre. "New to the city, yeah? Stay out of Ferriers Town. It's no place for humans. Just... keep to yourself, familiarize yourself with the train systems, and you'll do all right here.

"James will be sure to show you around the city sometime, make sure you know your way around. He knows all the decent places to spend one's time, and he knows all the city laws and how to follow them. Don't you, James?"

"Uh, well, yes. I suppose so."

"Right. Say goodbye to your girlfriend. We've got to go."

Deirdre laughed loudly at the "girlfriend" remark while James protested, blushing like a tomato. Iain ignored them both, beginning to head toward the gate.

"He's kind of weird, isn't he?" Deirdre giggled, pointing at Iain's back. "First he chases off that nice Elaine girl, and then he's telling me what to do!"

James shook his head. "No, Elaine is no good. You should stay away from her."

"Why? I mean, she seemed a little odd, but it was nice of her to offer to show me around..."

"No, she..." He bit his lip. "She just wants to sell you stuff."

"Oh." Deirdre folded her arms, thinking for a moment before guessing, "She has her own clothing store or something? That's why she was complimenting these old things..."

"No, I mean... like stuff that isn't good for you. Stuff you eat... and get addicted to."

Deirdre blinked a few times. "Like old moldy food? But that's not addictive—"

"James, let's go!" Iain barked.

"I mean like drugs," James hissed in a low voice. "I got to go."

"Oh... bye!" She waved weakly as he rushed through the gate and down the street after Iain.

After puzzling for a second, she folded her arms. "She sells drugs... Why didn't Iain just tell me that? He told me all that other stuff..." She tilted her head, remembering how James had whispered the truth to her.

Her eyes widened, and she gasped, beginning to pace back and forth. "Iain must not want people to know... Maybe he likes Elaine. Or maybe he's in on it too? But he's a soldier! But that'd explain why James was so nervous... but wait." She stopped pacing. "Iain did stop Elaine from maybe trying to sell me some... Ooh, this is so confusing! It still doesn't explain why he didn't just tell me about her. Maybe he just doesn't like people selling drugs in front of his little brother? I don't know..."

She walked slowly back toward the school, groaning in frustration. "The city is so WEIRD! I wish I was back at the orphanage." She glanced back once at the street.

I hope James doesn't get sucked into this mess. If I were his sister, I wouldn't let Elaine within two hundred meters of him!

Chapter Five

James hurriedly followed his brother over the road, darting around parked cars, the fragments of the overheard conversation between his brother and Elaine still rattling around in his mind. He struggled to catch up to Iain, who was seemingly unaware as he walked out in front of moving vehicles and barely avoided getting clipped by a side mirror.

James reached Iain when he stopped inside a convenience store to shop.

"Iain," James said, trailing behind him as he browsed the shelves. "Sorry 'bout the chores."

James wondered briefly if Iain was ignoring him but quickly remembered that Iain was never the type to ignore anyone when he was cross; that was their father's habit. Iain was always upfront with him and rarely stayed angry for long.

"What?" Iain turned around, looking confused. Then recognition flashed in his eyes. "Already forgotten." He clapped James on the back. "Just don't get used to me doing them for you, Lazy."

James smirked. "Got it."

Iain began grabbing items from the shelves and handing them to James to hold as he shopped. Mostly bread. They always needed bread. He remembered his mother served bread with every meal, and they had not stopped doing so even after she left.

"Maybe I'll cook for us again one night this week, yeah?" Iain suggested. There was excitement in his voice, though James suspected some of it was forced. "I could make stuffed cabbage. I've wanted to modify the original recipe to give it a little kick. What do you think?"

It was rare that Iain had the time to prepare a homemade meal since joining the Iron Wardens. But when he did cook, the house always felt warm and familiar like it had when their mother was still around. Iain learned from her how to cook traditional meals and her own unique recipes. Iain always seemed happier when he was preparing meals. The house always smelled wonderfully of paprika and garlic on those nights.

"That would be great," James replied distractedly. He wondered if Iain was going to mention his conversation with Elaine. As Iain began grabbing items from shelves methodically, James knew that was not the case. "About Elaine—"

Iain fumbled and dropped the jar of peppers he'd been balancing on his arm. Mercifully, it didn't break, but that didn't stop the shop clerk from swearing at them loudly. Iain seemed unusually jumpy.

"James." Iain's voice was firm. "Don't worry about it. She won't be hanging around the school anymore. And I won't be seeing her either."

James nodded reluctantly. He supposed Iain was right; he had never seen Iain so cross with Elaine before. It seemed that he really meant his warning, which seemed odd to James, as Iain had previously just been ignoring Elaine. He wondered what had been different this time.

It must have been because she was trying to get Deirdre involved, James realized.

It was a rare occurrence that James caught glimpses of the person he remembered his brother to be from when they were younger: someone who often cared too much about everyone else. It was rare that Iain cared about anything anymore.

"So," Iain said after a pause, "you killed it today, yeah? You introduced yourself to every professor, and you—" He cut himself off, his eyes narrowing on the bright yellow floral scarf around James's neck. He sighed. "You wore the scarf again."

James fiddled with his scarf, absently twirling one of the loose threads between his fingers. "So?" he asked a little defensively.

"I told you before not to wear the scarf."

"It's just a scrap of fabric. It doesn't mean anything."

Iain shook his head. "It means something." He pointed to his uniform and the patch attached to it on his left shoulder with an insignia of an iron horseshoe. "This is a scrap of fabric, yeah? But it means something. It means—"

"It means you can ruin a person's day?" James thought of the Iron Wardens in the shop earlier.

"Nah. I can do that any day. It means I'm bound to serve this city and its citizens."

And steal their books.

"Okay," James murmured uncertainly, not entirely sure what Iain was getting at, "so what does my scarf mean?"

"Well, it can mean a lot of things to... different people," Iain said very slowly. "Things we don't want people to think."

James lowered his head to hide his disappointment. You may want to hide part of your heritage, but I don't, he thought to himself sullenly. Then he remembered how he'd avoided Deirdre's question about the scarf and knew he was just as guilty of withholding information. He had only wanted Deirdre to give him a chance.

Iain tilted his head to meet James's gaze and grinned. "More importantly, it means that you like flowery things and wearing women's clothing. You won't meet a girl like that, now will you, little brother?"

"Flowers are neutral," James muttered, feeling his ears heat up. He stuck out his chin indignantly, stating, "And Deirdre liked my scarf. In fact, that's how I met her."

"Well, she clearly has good sense. A paragon of sense, that one."

"Yes, she—" James broke off, perceiving the sarcasm in Iain's tone. He brushed off the comment, saying, "She's just... different, I guess." When Iain snickered, James added, "She's much too interesting to hang out with someone like you anyway."

"You're probably right. My loss."

The brothers left the shop after paying and headed to their next destination on Iain's list. As they walked down the street, Iain asked, "Does she know she's your girlfriend?"

"She's—she's not—" James broke off again with an irritated sigh and shoved Iain in the side. A passing woman looked very alarmed to see a young man pushing an Iron Warden.

"Careful," Iain warned. "I might have to pretend to arrest you to keep the peace."

"You are so annoying."

"I know."

* * *

"There you are, Red."

Deirdre whirled around. She had headed inside after loitering in the front school yard for a while and had been searching fruitlessly for some sign of life in the now-empty building. She sighed in relief to see a broad-faced woman with short grey hair walking toward her from a side hallway.

"I was looking for you," she said, jerking her head back the way she came. "Come along. I'm your dormitory supervisor." As Deirdre began to follow her, she added, "I teach British history on the side. There's nothing about the history of this island I don't know, if that means anything. You may call me Miss Becket. Not Mrs. Becket."

"Oh... Becket, like Saint Thomas Becket!" Deirdre said with a small smile as they headed toward a side door.

Miss Becket looked back at her, an eyebrow raised. "Who?"

"You know, the archbishop of Canterbury, ages ago? He was murdered in his own cathedral."

The woman laughed and patted Deirdre's shoulder so hard it was almost a swat. "You must have read that in a fantasy book somewhere. I've never heard of such a thing!"

She furrowed her brow. "Really?"

"Who's the history teacher here, Red?"

Deirdre folded her arms, wondering if every woman she met in the city was going to call her by that nickname.

They stepped outside into a large, expansive courtyard, separating the school from two other sets of buildings. One Miss Becket identified as the school offices, and the other housed the dormitories. Both were two-story, brick, and surrounded by short iron fences. As they walked past the fence and up to the dormitory entrance, Deirdre once again felt sick to her stomach. She felt caged in.

Miss Becket opened the door, saying, "Come along inside, Red; it'll be warmer at least. Not much prettier to behold though."

As she stepped across the threshold, Deirdre inhaled deeply: the scents of old wood, faint mildew, freshly baked potatoes, gas in the lights, and a strange powdery smell that reminded her of heavily made-up ladies she'd met. The white-and-blue-wallpapered foyer was large but unadorned; there wasn't a single glimpse of a painting, flower vase, or anything else to give the room character.

Remembering all she'd ever been schooled about manners when house calling, Deirdre forced out, "It's... nice."

"Yes, positively dreadful." Miss Becket sighed, then began to walk down the hall, which opened up into a wide, similarly bland great room. There were many windows, but they were all narrow and barred on the outside by iron rails. On their right was a wooden staircase, along with a small sitting area with only enough furniture to accommodate a couple of people comfortably. The rest of the room was taken up by a large wooden table with bench seating. Near it was an open door, through which Deirdre glimpsed a couple of elderly women; one was putting a pot into an oven.

"Dinner won't be ready for a while, I suppose," Miss Becket said, glancing at the kitchen. "Come along."

Deirdre followed her upstairs while the older woman began talking without pausing for breath. "I have a room below, near the front door. There is a back kitchen door, but that's kept locked, in case one of you lot try to break curfew. I'm supposed to keep you from getting out, and it's a thankless job, I'll tell you that. But I'm not above beating you back upstairs with a broom if that's what it takes."

As they reached the top of the stairs and headed down a long, narrow hall lined with doors, she continued, "And don't imagine you can intimidate me; I had to force my husband to stay inside the same way when he got caught up in gambling after hours. He hated me for it."

They stopped at the last door on the right, and Miss Becket walked Deirdre inside. It was a small room with just enough space for a bed, a dresser, and desk in front of a large window. The window was barred with iron, once again, making Deirdre sigh. And she barely restrained a groan when her gaze fell on the hideous yellow wallpaper.

"You'll be spending most of your time studying in here, so you'd better get used to it." Miss Becket tapped the wallpaper with a long fingernail.

"This whole room is mine?" Deirdre asked, turning to face Miss Becket, her eyebrows raised. She had hardly been alone her entire life, much less had her own room.

"Uh-huh. Dinner will be in about three hours. Stay out of trouble until then."

"Can I wait downstairs, in that room?" Deirdre asked, glancing out the window.

Miss Becket laughed again and said, "That's reserved for the girls who are about to graduate. You'll have to wait until next semester to have dibs on that space." She looked back at the wallpaper, scrunching her nose at it. "Think of it as something to look forward to. I suppose."

And she left before Deirdre even had the chance of thinking of another question to ask.

After tossing her suitcase onto the bed, Deirdre headed over to the window, sitting down cross-legged on her desk and spinning around so she could lean against the glass. Shutting her eyes, she let out a long sigh.

This is how it'll be from now on, she thought. I'll all be alone, behind bars. Ugh, that makes it sound like I'm in jail! She sighed loudly again. I thought the city would be more fun than this. This isn't at all what I imagined. Those faeries are lucky they don't have to bother with all this silly iron...

Opening her eyes, she reached up and unlocked the window, opening it as much as she could. She inhaled the afternoon breeze; it was damp and cool, smelling slightly of salt. But it also carried the smoky, thick, greasy scents of the city; she coughed and looked out at the cityscape.

The grey buildings of Neo-London were uninteresting and unremarkable. But in the distance she spotted pulsating green and blue lights. They did not flash alarmingly; instead, their glow was more akin to a lighthouse. It beckoned rather than repulsed.

I wonder if that's Ferriers Town. The thought came from nowhere, but Deirdre couldn't dismiss it. It did sound like an interesting place, from what James was saying... She sat for a moment, watching the lights through the iron bars until she realized that Miss Becket hadn't forbidden her from going out and exploring. She had mentioned curfew, but it didn't seem like it was anytime soon—it wasn't dark yet.

Anything would be better than staying here alone.

She made a face at the iron bars and wallpaper, then turned and jumped off the desk. Throwing open her luggage, she pulled out her change purse and popped it open. The inside was lined with a folded handkerchief, the only one she'd managed to finish embroidering, and there was a fair amount inside, a farewell gift from the Sisters. She snapped the small purse shut and slipped it into her skirt's pocket.

Grinning, she hurried out of the room, down the stairs (Miss Becket was sitting, reading at the table and listening to a blaringly loud radio program), and breezed down the hall and out the door before anyone could stop her. Out in the courtyard, she broke into a run, dashing back into the school, down the empty hall, her steps echoing loudly. Bursting outside and jumping down the stairs to the street, she turned right toward Ferriers Town.

She smirked back at the school. I'll be back before they know I'm gone!

Chapter Six

Alan Callaghan drove off the side of the road just outside of Neo-London's walls. In the distance, two battalions of the Iron Infantry were periodically shooting at something in the distance. Military trucks blocked the road behind him to keep anyone from going in or out of the city, to keep civilians from straying into the line of fire. The barrage of gunfire, punctuated with unearthly roars, was sure to draw attention.

It had been years since Alan had last seen one of the ancient Fae monsters. When he had been a young man of low rank in the Iron Infantry, he traveled briefly to the more remote towns up north, where he had encountered quite a few beasts of myth the farther they ventured to the wild country where Fae roamed unchecked. He had learned much about the Fae then, like how best to destroy them. He had learned much about himself as well.

This was the first time Alan had ever seen a monster so close to Neo-London, however. He knew what that meant: the faeries had no respect for them anymore. All the signs were there, but it seemed to Alan that he was the only one who had the knowledge to read them and the foresight to prevent what would surely happen next.

As he drove up to the main flank, one of the Iron Infantry soldiers, Boyd Prance, traipsed over to Alan and saluted. He was sturdy and bulkily built, with close-cropped blond hair. "General Callaghan," Boyd said, "the animal is approaching."

Alan followed Boyd's pointing finger out to the field. A black-furred shape bounded in the distance, lithe and powerful. It looked like the shadow of a dark cloud over the field, but unlike a shadow, the creature was very corporeal. It was a wolf nearly the size of a tank. Infantrymen on either side of it were targeting the beast with flamethrowers. Smoke streamed through the air as flames licked the vegetation. The great wolf bounded on unconcerned as its fur was engulfed by fire.

"Animal?" Alan's voice was flat as he watched the futile battle. "I have no doubt that is the specific term General Edgar Windsor will be using to describe it. Animal sounds so... nonthreatening."

Boyd glanced around to make sure no one was within hearing range before he leaned in and said, "It's exactly how you predicted it'd be. There are monsters coming from the north."

"It's another reminder from the Winter Court. Another threat of war if we don't do what they want."

The smell of petrol pervaded the air from the flamethrowers. The great wolf swiped at the soldiers to either side of it, sending them flying like they were nothing, and ran right over their bodies. It was headed straight for the city gates, undeterred and burning brightly, patches of its dark fur singed away to reveal angry, bleeding red burns. Its roar sounded like a rockslide.

"This should be interesting," Boyd murmured, taking a step back from Alan as General Edgar Windsor walked purposefully toward them through the trail of smoke the wind was blowing toward the city.

"General Callaghan." Edgar nodded once. His brow shone with sweat darkened by smoke. "Why are you here?"

"I've come to ensure that beast doesn't reach our walls."

"That won't happen."

"The incendiary devices don't appear particularly effective," Alan commented shortly. "What is your next strategy?"

"Infantry sharpshooters will position themselves on either side"—Edgar pointed in the direction of the wolf—"aiming for the legs of the wolf, preventing it from moving any faster toward the city. From there, we will send troops in close range."

The wolf was a blurred, distorted image in the heat of the flames, moving a bit slower now but getting nearer. The flames were close enough for the heat to warm Alan's skin; it bolstered his resistance, feeling almost like the flush of anger.

"It will reach these walls, General, if we do not take risks. Even if it is nearly dead by the time it reaches the walls, it will still have reached them, and citizens of this city will no longer feel safe."

Alan turned to Boyd, who was standing at the ready, and then looked to Edgar again. "Tell the infantry to line up directly in the monster's path. We'll arm them with their new silver artillery. Meanwhile, with suppressive fire on both sides, we will keep the beast on track. The offensive team will wait until the signal is given and then target their fire at the beast's head."

Edgar's mouth formed a thin line. "That will be putting the entire infantry at risk. If we launch a direct offensive attack, many more lives could be lost."

"I have seen many monsters like this before, and I've seen them all brought down," Alan reminded him. How often the general forgot who among them was the most experienced with Fae. "The new artillery is tested and sound. I was present at the demonstration. The infantry cannot miss."

Edgar knew they were running out of time. His eyes narrowed on the field.

Alan studied the general's face, how the hard lines of his features twitched to relent. It was a familiar sight, a soothing sight. He was about to understand how relenting to Alan's will would make his life so much easier. To some, like Boyd, the realization was painless.

Alan leaned in as if not wanting anyone else to hear and said, "I would not like to be the one to explain to the king how a monster reached his walls, General."

Edgar stared at him, perhaps wondering if he'd only imagined hearing Alan's statement. Then his shoulders lowered. "We will try your plan, General Callaghan. The success or failure of this operation is on your head."

Alan got to work immediately. Boyd trailed along behind him obediently to where the other infantry troops were gathered and awaiting orders. Alan explained to them the strategy they were to follow and made sure to iterate they were to wait for his signal only.

"I request to be in the foremost rank, General Callaghan," Boyd said as the soldiers began to file to their posts.

"Then go, Prance," Alan said. "Make sure the others stay in line."

By the time the soldiers had been handed their new artillery and formed a U shape in the path of the danger, the wolf was close. The flames had eaten away at the beast's hide, the air filled with the stench of singed fur.

Bullets pelted the ground by the wolf's paws, sending dust and dirt swirling into the air, chasing the wolf straight toward the line of armed troops.

Alan waited to give the signal. Edgar stood beside him, growing tenser with every passing moment.

The wolf was nearly there, well within range, but it wasn't close enough.

One of the soldiers shouted something and clambered to his feet. Boyd barked at him to stand his ground and yanked the soldier back to his position.

The wolf was one giant bound away from falling upon them and ripping them to shreds.

"Fire!" Alan shouted.

Gunfire rang through the air. It was nearly impossible to tell where the roar of the gunfire ended and where the roar of the beast began.

Silence settled over the field. The wolf was still, but standing. Soldiers readied to pull back, no matter what came next.

With a great heaving breath, the wolf took a step forward before collapsing. The infantry scrambled away to avoid being crushed as the heavy body impacted the ground with a thud. After a few breathless moments, the wolf twitched no longer and breathed no more.

"Excellent," Alan said brightly and began walking in the direction of the body.

Boyd was waiting for him as the other soldiers began to clear out. Alan instructed the infantry to clear away the corpse as soon as possible to avoid civilians seeing it. Although Alan intended for the city to hear of the wolf's attack, he needed the information to be released in the controlled environment of the government.

The creature seemed even more impossibly large up close. It was gargantuan, and while most of its fur was gone, revealing red, glinting flesh, it was obviously a Fae wolf. Unseeing eyes the color of steel stared glassy at the sky, and its great maw hung open to reveal sharp canines slick with saliva.

"You did well," Alan said to Boyd.

"We've got a few of those black dogs back in Ireland," Boyd said with a whistle, "but none as big as this fellow. Used to go after me gran's chickens."

"There was a time"—Alan nudged the Fae creature with the toe of his boot, his mouth curling in disgust—"when no Fae creatures would have dared to venture this close to the walls. There was a time when their kind was not tolerated behind our walls."

"What's to be done about it then?"

Boyd stood there expectantly, blue eyes bright with something resembling hunger. It was the same expression he had worn since he was just a boy, when Alan had taken him and his older brother Philip under his wing after their parents had been killed. It did not seem to matter how much Alan gave, Boyd was always grasping for more.

How unfortunate life would have been for the orphaned brothers had he not stepped in and helped them cut familial ties with the Dearg-dues, a UK mob. But even so, tragedy seemed to follow them like a shadow.

"We'll simply have to convince General Windsor of the real threat the Fae pose."

"How could he not see it after today?" Boyd asked. He was angry. Anger came quickly for Boyd, Alan realized. It was always sparking under the surface.

Alan shook his head. "No. What happened today will not be enough. It needs to be personal." He looked at Boyd directly. "When that happens, I'll need soldiers like you and Philip, and Iain."

Boyd clenched his jaw at the mention of Alan's son. "There's no one more loyal to you in this city than me, General Callaghan. I'll tell you that much. No one else is willing to get his hands dirty."

Alan's gaze drifted to Boyd's hands at his sides. His knuckles seemed to be perpetually flush, bruised, like marks of his accomplishments. He knew whomever was on the receiving end of Boyd's fists was in far worse condition. He definitely was not afraid to get his hands a little bloody for the cause.

"Your concern is appreciated," Alan said. "I assure you I would know if someone among us was not fulfilling their purpose. If that were ever the case, well, I would let you be the one to... take care of it."

Boyd hid a pleased smile.

In the road, a group of soldiers were escorting General Windsor to see the carnage. Alan began walking back toward the road with the intention of taking control of the situation. There needed to be ramifications for a monster nearly breaching their walls.

He turned back to Boyd as he began to head toward the group. "Oh, and I do hope you and your brother will be joining me as guests tonight at my home. We have much to discuss and celebrate," Alan said brightly. "I know Philip had other obligations last time..." He trailed off. Philip had given no reason for not showing. He couldn't imagine what could have been more important than any job Alan could give him.

"We wouldn't miss it, General." Boyd stayed behind as they neared the other general, though it seemed to Alan that he had to stop himself from following.

As Alan reached the soldiers, he immediately began going over with Edgar all the potential changes to their policies that needed to be addressed with King Eadred and made law. He suggested that they set a new, earlier curfew. He explained that patrols surrounding the entrance to the city should be doubled, and no one, save for traders and members of the Iron Guard, should be allowed to leave the city until they could be certain that there were no other monsters in the area.

"We ought to increase security outside the walls during the Cataclysm Memorial, as well as within Ferriers Town. Once news of this attack on the walls inevitably reaches the city, it could serve to encourage others of their kind to act."

Alan gritted his teeth as General Windsor raised his eyebrows quizzically. Fool.

Windsor rubbed at his chin absently, thinking everything over. He looked a great deal like the king, his cousin—a trait he no doubt used to advance his influence in the country. How else had his nonsensical policies regarding Fae have been passed, if not for his connection to the British royals?

General Windsor was always quick to shoot down Alan's suggestions. "The citizens of this city have little to do with the goings-on of the Summer or Winter Courts. This appears to be an isolated incident. Faeries in the city, even if they are Unseelie, rarely have loyalty to the Courts."

Alan was stunned for a moment, wondering how Windsor could be so blind. "This was clearly another very deliberate threat directly from the Winter Court. They will continue to send these reminders to us until we agree to their terms. They have all the time in the world, General. We don't have that luxury."

Around seventeen years prior, the Winter Court had sent a messenger to speak with the government. Alan had been the one to receive the message and pass it on. The Court demanded that the Iron Guard place all their efforts into building weapons for them, presumably to use against the Summer Court, with whom they had been at war with for centuries, lest they incur the wrath of the Winter King, who would start a full-out war against humanity. Ever since that day, the Court had been unleashing more and more beasts across the countryside.

"King Eadred will not give in to any demands from the Winter Court. That much has been decided." Windsor frowned. "You've been allowed your weapons research, General Callaghan, and I believe that alone has served as a deterrent, but no efforts will be made to comply with the demands of a mad Fae king."

"Regardless," Alan pressed on, "I think it would be prudent of us to not ignore any possible ties this attack might have with Fae in the city. After all, the faery Courts are focused on hierarchy... so they'll target those in command here. And the king would be their primary target, don't you agree?"

The general didn't respond.

"Are you willing to take that chance, especially with the king's public appearance in the parade on the Cataclysm Memorial? I suggest an increase in security."

General Windsor still looked displeased, but his shoulders slackened and he exhaled softly. "Fine. That seems reasonable, General Callaghan."

Alan nodded. "Good then. I'll leave you to supervise. I have a meeting with those weapons engineers we consulted with last year." When Windsor's brow creased, Alan clarified, "It's merely a formality. I doubt they have anything of value enough for the military to fund."

That seemed to placate the general. Despite his status in the military, Alan knew that Windsor hadn't the stomach for war or the weapons needed to prevent it. This thought filled Alan's chest like a deep, satisfying breath, and he smiled, knowing he was the only one who could do what his country needed him to do. Only him.

The containment room was small and white and plain, located deep within the engineering and sciences building not too far from the Department of Defense. The company called themselves the Iron Architects, though they had not had any affiliation with the Iron Guard branch of the military for decades since the production of weapons had been placed on hold after the Cataclysm.

"Your silver artillery worked beautifully today," Alan said.

"It was due to your funding, General." Levi, the principal engineer, pushed his glasses up as they slid down his perspiring face. His skin was clammy under the fluorescent lights of the laboratory.

Alan did not meet his imploring gaze directly but merely glimpsed it in the reflection of the glass wall they were standing before. "Are you apprehensive?" Alan asked bluntly.

Levi chuckled. "Well, the materials we're working with are a bit, ah, dodgy."

"You assured me your vessel would be strong enough to contain the energy."

"Oh, it is," Levi protested. "It's just that faery plasma—it's just, what we do—the process it undergoes to be converted into pure energy makes the substance extremely unstable. It's as unpredictable as magic and just as baffling to me. The only thing we can do with it is contain it and direct it."

Alan's mouth twitched at a smile. He knocked on the glass with his knuckles. "This glass is blast resistant, is it not?"

Levi nodded rapidly. "Of course."

"Then we should have nothing to fret over."

Behind the glass, technicians were giving the vessel a last inspection. The vessel was an enormous metal device. Its middle looked like the budging abdomen of a spider, while the top was a curved disk, an amplifier, with stilt-like legs that ended in claws to dig into the ground and hold the device in place. Despite being nothing more than a machine, the device vibrated almost imperceptibly, like a hum, as if it were breathing.

The sound of the side door swinging open to his right made Alan pry his eyes away from the glass. A chair much like a converted hospital bed was wheeled into the room with the device by several masked technicians. A woman—no, a faery—was strapped to the chair and unconscious. Her black hair shone slightly blue under the fluorescent lights.

Alan stared past his reflection, focusing on her behind the glass. He was aware of people speaking all around him, but their words sounded more like white noise to him, insignificant and buzzing compared to the nagging feeling that something was wrong.

"Not her."

Levi looked up. "General?"

"Find another one."

The technicians in the room with them stared wordlessly at Alan. On the other side, people had begun to tap at the crook of her exposed arm, prepping her skin for the needle's puncture to draw out her blood. The device shuddered as if in anticipation.

"General, is there a problem?" Levi asked, confusion painting his features. "I tested her blood before you arrived, and I think she is a prime candidate for our trial."

Alan ran a hand over his face jerkily, turning away from Levi and his team of technicians that hovered around them. He wondered wildly how they were able to stand it. Did they not feel the same unwavering sense that there was something missing?

"That was an order." Alan's voice was icy.

Cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck.

He had no qualms about taking faery blood, spilling faery blood, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. It was inexplicable. All the subjects were selected from prisons or had caused some illegal trouble in the city. Everything was logically sound. He had no reason to think anything was wrong.

He did not hear the words exchanged, but they finally listened to him and wheeled the woman out of the room again. He tracked her as she drifted past him in the room. Her face was clearly Fae; she had impossibly wide eyes that bulged under dark, closed lids, like an owl's eyes. Her ears were long and curved to a point.

His gaze lingered on her hair, which was the most human part of her head—long, dark, wavy hair, the sight of which stirred familiarity. He wondered absently what it might feel like to run his fingers through it.

I'm not supposed to do that, am I? There's something I oughtn't do... isn't there?

A few minutes passed without Alan noticing. When the chair's wheels squeaked back into the room, carrying another female faery, Alan found he could focus again, the uncomfortable sensation gone from his chest, forgotten.

The faery was slim and diminutive, with thin, dark red hair, and her skin was so pale it was nearly translucent. They could see all the veins under her exposed skin.

That will make taking her blood easier.

The process was tedious and cautious. Attached to the vessel were wires. Attached to the wires were iron manacles and two wicked-looking needles that plunged into the veins at the wrists. There was something about the iron that agitated faeries' magic—even when they were under sedation—that allowed the technicians to harness that magic without being splattered against the walls.

"What happens next?" Alan asked, turning to Levi.

"The vessel purifies the blood into undiluted energy," Levi explained. He sucked his teeth. "And hopefully contains it."

The technicians stepped back from the vessel. The faery woman was paler than before, now completely drained of blood. The vessel seemed to shudder for a moment. It stabilized, going still as it absorbed the energy, and the technicians were cleared to exit the room. They wheeled the dead, or soon to be dead, faery out with them.

"Thank you, General Callaghan, for funding my research," Levi said breathlessly, grabbing his hand without warning and giving it a vigorous shake. "I wish I could do something to show how grateful I am. No one else would've given me this chance. In fact, everyone I proposed my ideas to have shut me down."

"Turning my idea into a reality is thanks enough, Levi. And the funding will keep coming, mind you. I plan on watching your body of work expand exponentially. I guarantee that the Iron Guard will be needing your services soon."

"Never underestimate the power of a good, old-fashioned deterrent, is that it?" Levi looked at him expectantly, like he was waiting for Alan to assuage his doubts.

"Oh, these weapons won't serve as a mere deterrent. This vessel you've created will prevent full-out war with the Winter Court."

He was so close now. So close to fulfilling the demands of the Winter Court. They had what they wanted now, a way to break the magical barrier that surrounded the Summer Court and kept its occupants hidden and safe and cut off from the world outside. There they sat for decades, no doubt made lazy and sluggish and pampered, unprepared for the coming onslaught. Or, worst of all, they had been using their time wisely to plan, to build weapons of their own. That, Alan reasoned, would be giving them too much credit, assuming the Seelie Fae were nearly as clever as he was.

"Of course, we need to run some tests to see how the energy reacts," Levi said, looking down at his clipboard. "We know from the small scale that we can direct it any way we want, but as for how it will react full scale..."

"I think a test away from the lab and out in the field is required. Sometimes that is the only way to achieve real results." Alan ran his fingers over the glass absently. It was cold to the touch. "For the energy we require, we'll need a much more powerful faery than anything that resides in the slums of Ferriers Town."

"How do we find one of those?"

"Leave that to me. I know how to spot one. It will appear completely human. That can get rather... messy, if one doesn't know what they're about. We wouldn't want to end up harming a human by accident."

Levi nodded as if he understood. Silence settled over them for a moment.

"Right, right." Levi folded his arms across his chest. "Tea then?"

Chapter Seven

"I thought you said we had to hurry," James grumbled as he lugged his backpack and shopping down the street. "You rushed me in the shop. I forgot to buy biscuits."

Iain had led them past their usual shortcut to the nearest entrance to the Underground. Now they were headed down an area that most considered to be the darker side of the city. The walls grew tighter, iron less frequent, chain-link fences more common. Graffiti littered the brick buildings.

"I did say that." Iain rolled his eyes.

"So why're we taking the long way 'round?" James eyed the dim corners of the streets with cautious intrigue. Evening was drawing near. They were quite close to Ferriers Town.

"I want to show you something," Iain replied, turning to grin at him.

After another minute of walking, in which James complained the entire time about his forgotten biscuits, they stopped just inside of a residential street. The flats were small, made of cheap brick and rusted metal. Some of the windows were broken. James wondered what on earth Iain could possibly want to show him here.

"It's nice, yeah?" Iain gestured grandly to one of the flats high above them. "Imagine living here. They're pretty decently priced—course, I'd have to save my money. It'd be tight for a bit, but..."

"Here?" James fought the urge to pinch his nose shut at the smell of grime and exhaust that pervaded the area. "Live here?"

"Well, yeah," Iain said a little defensively. He folded his arms across his chest. "Think about it. I could just walk to work instead of taking the train every day." He smiled faintly, adding, "You could come too, you know. You could walk to school. And during the summertime—oh man, you could have a lot of fun around here, yeah?"

James somehow could not imagine having anything resembling fun here—unless he took up an interest in studying city rats. He did like the idea of walking to school, however. What was strangest to him was Iain's obvious passion about this place. He hadn't seen Iain so excited about anything in a while.

"Why?" James asked.

"Why, what?"

"Why do you want to stay in the city?"

"I just listed a lot of solid reasons. You know, Mum and Dad started out small too. No shame in that."

"I get that," James said.

"It's time to move on. I think we'd do better on our own, is all."

James nodded slowly, finally understanding what his brother meant. Things between them and their father had not been amiable for a while, if one could even call any of their interactions amiable. He couldn't help but feel a sense of relief that Iain was starting to think for himself, that he had finally given up trying to please their father.

"Do you really want to stay in Neo-London forever?" James asked. "I thought— I thought you wanted to travel. I thought we were going to go together."

Silence. A dog barked from one of the flats. A woman yelled at the dog to shut up.

Iain exhaled softly. He took off his beret, and his wavy hair fell to one side of his face. He raked his fingers through the mess of hair, trying to smooth it back. "James, things change, yeah? I was just a kid when I said that. I have responsibilities now."

"What about Mum?" James asked.

Iain winced as if the word caused physical pain. "What about her?"

It was rare that any of the Callaghan men spoke of Kallista. Talk of missing her had turned into questions and accusations and finally a cold silence. Silence was like a bandage to cover a wound, to keep it from the air—but it also kept it from healing.

"We said we'd look for her, remember?" James insisted.

"If Mum left for a reason, then we should respect that reason."

James gaped. "What? That's stupid! She wouldn't have left us this long on purpose." He hadn't meant to shout, but the words had just flown out before he could quiet them. He wiped flecks of spit from his mouth on the back of his hand.

"I know. I know. That's not what I'm saying."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," Iain ground out, "I think she was unhappy here, as much as she loved us."

"Why?" James squinted at him. Iain's words seemed to jumble in his mind, becoming incomprehensible.

He never remembered his mother being discontented. He remembered her coming home from work, exhausted but pleased. He remembered watching her and Iain cook together, and then she would let him help them set the table and clean up after. Mealtimes were the brightest, clearest memories. One time, their father had walked into the kitchen still wearing his military boots, and she'd chased him out of the kitchen with a mop, and they'd all laughed. He remembered her stories the most.

Iain placed a hand on James's back, pushing him onward. They began walking slowly down the residential area. "She had a huge family, and they had to leave. She stayed behind to raise us, but she always missed them, yeah?"

"Then why not take all of us with her?"

"It's... complicated."

"That's what you always say." James huffed. "I think I can work it out."

"We wouldn't be welcome there," Iain said. "We're outsiders."

James frowned, knowing he was right. While their mother had raised them in her culture at home, when they were in public, she asked that they keep their heritage quiet, especially at school. Mum had told him she was mistreated in school growing up—in Ukraine and in England. They only knew a few words of Romani language, and since their mother had left, they had forgotten much of what she had taught them. Their second, Romani names, given to them by their mother a few years after their birth, hadn't been uttered in years.

He wondered what that meant for them then. The people in the city only saw them as Romani, while the Roma saw them as only half or none at all. He didn't think they were very welcome in the city either. Maybe they were welcome nowhere. It wouldn't matter to him so much, he thought, if it didn't seem to matter so much to everyone else.

"We are her family." James's chest tightened. "That doesn't explain anything, Iain."

Iain looked like he was debating something internally. His lips parted to retort, but he changed his mind.

"Regardless," Iain said, "we have to try to make it. We have to try to make something of ourselves. She wanted that for us. She certainly wouldn't want us hiking across the English wild to find her, yeah?"

Iain didn't understand. James didn't understand him either. He gazed up at the flats and scrunched up his face, thinking there was no way she wanted them to stay in a place like this. He sighed, knowing there was no way to convince Iain to leave with him.

"It's good that you've decided to finish your schooling. It's a decent school. Mum would be thrilled to know that."

James did not respond, and he heard Iain sigh softly in defeat. They began walking down the street again, James lost in thought.

"Stop!"

James yelped as Iain suddenly grabbed the strap of his book bag and gave him a yank backward. He nearly toppled to the ground. He turned to shoot Iain a nasty look but stopped when he noticed where they had wound up. They were right outside Ferriers Town.

He didn't know why they had not heard the music earlier; there was a deep, thrumming beat that pulsated from the little town. It was not like much music James had heard before, but it was exactly what he imagined street performers would play. It was inviting.

Lights were everywhere. Lanterns were strung between buildings, illuminating little stalls and carts and shops, illuminating so many different shapes and faces and features of the faeries there. They wove their way expertly down the street, past each other. James and Iain exchanged glances. The lights flickered across Iain's face, so much so that James could not discern his expression. He was either as enthralled as James or fearful.

"Let's get out of here," Iain said and began to tug James along quickly by his book bag.

"Wait!" he protested, digging in his heels, wanting another look. He wanted to find out what instruments were being played. He wanted to know where that amazing smell was coming from all of a sudden.

"Unbelievable." Iain swore under his breath. He stopped tugging, and James almost lost his balance again. "I told her to stay away. She's lucky I don't bust her for this."

James whirled around, expecting to find that Elaine had stalked them all the way from school. Instead, he saw a familiar girl with an unmistakable bright red, frizzy mane of hair, wandering inside of Ferriers Town. Deirdre.

Lucky! She's not got anyone to boss her around.

"You stay right here, yeah?" Iain planted his beret back on his head. He fiddled with his baton that was clipped to his belt, checking it was still there. "I'm going after her."

"What? Why?" James gawked.

"Because she's clearly got no sense if she's planning on meeting Elaine here—"

"I mean, why do I have to stay here?"

Iain glared at him so harshly that James took a step back, sensing an impending smack to the back of his head. Then Iain started in after Deirdre.

James stuck his tongue out at him as he left. He waited for a moment before following. It wasn't fair that Iain and Deirdre got to explore Ferriers Town when James had wanted to do such a thing for most of his life.

As he walked down the street, he found his senses instantly assaulted but not in an unpleasant way. The music intensified in his ears. Faeries and humans brushed past him. He was dizzy from taking in all the different sights and colors and lights. He smelled sickeningly sweet foods and sharp, earthy herbs.

It was not long before he caught up to Iain. He couldn't imagine why his brother seemed so alert and tense. Iain kept looking all around as if expecting someone to jump him, and he stuck out his elbows to give himself a wide berth.

He soon reached his brother, but Deirdre was just ahead, keeping a steady pace in front of them. "Iain—"

James flinched as Iain stopped short of elbowing him in the gut reflexively. Iain cursed at him. "Just stick with me. Don't wander off. Stay away from the food."

James's eyes widened. He did notice many stalls selling different kinds of food and wondered which one was Pan. His mouth felt dry, and he wished he hadn't started thinking about it.

He clearly remembered how Iain had been that night after Elaine had dropped him off, unconscious, lying in the street, cars swerving around him. He had been nearly unrecognizable, nothing like his strong and stubborn brother. James had never seen him so vulnerable before or since.

Those memories and concerns were instantly forgotten when he heard a voice calling out, inviting faeries to have their fortunes and destinies told. James grabbed his brother's arm, but before James could open his mouth, Iain said, "No."

"I just want to look. I don't want my fortune told. I just want to see how—"

"Remember what Mum said? She said that fortune-tellers are a hoax. It's a way to make a living from the gazhe. It's for idiots."

James pouted. He remembered. When James had wanted his palm read by a fake fortune-teller at a festival in town, she had told him exactly that. It was certainly a hoax, but that hadn't stopped most from believing the ridiculous falsehood that the Roma had inherent ties to witchcraft and faeries. If that were true, James certainly wouldn't have to scour bookshops for forbidden tomes on magic to satisfy his scholarly curiosity anymore. It was all a load of rubbish, as Iain would say.

"But that's where Deirdre's going!" James announced.

Iain smirked. "She's just proved my point."

* * *

The moment Deirdre turned the corner and stepped onto the street of Ferriers Town, she let out a loud, shameless gasp that turned into a beaming smile. Lanterns lined the street, some hanging by string, others with no visible support. Open-air vendors sold trinkets and foods of all kinds, including fruit that smelled sweet and strangely familiar. The people, of course, were just as interesting.

She passed a crowd of faeries bartering at an enormous, open leatherworks booth and paused to listen to their chatter. The goods in the booth were gorgeous: braided halters for horses, twisted hair ties, and belts with birds, flowers, and trees embroidered around them. And not only were there all hues of leather, when she reached out and traced her fingers over some goods hanging near her, they were softer and smoother than any she'd felt before.

"Back again, I see?"

Deirdre jumped and turned, hand on her heart. Walking toward her was the green-skinned, white-haired faery she had seen on the corner only hours earlier.

She relaxed, answering, "I was just curious. Plus this is all really pretty!" She gestured at the leather.

The faery grinned her sharp smile once more. "And why else are you here? What is your goal?"

"I..." Quickly she searched her mind for an answer. "I suppose I just wanted something to do, somewhere to go. Plus it's so lively here!"

"That's all?"

"Well..." She briefly considered saying "This is the only place without all those awful iron gates and bars," but even she realized how odd that might sound. So she stood there in awkward silence for a bit before shrugging.

The faery looked her up and down. "You are confused. Why don't you come to my shop? My fortunes will set you right."

"No way." Deirdre shook her head. "Fortune-telling is either done by using evil spirits, or it's a hoax. Forget it!"

"You would be true... if you were referring to human fortune-telling. We use our own magic, what we were born with. And I cannot look into the future. I can only see what was or what is." The faery raised a thin eyebrow at her. "And you must have some questions about your own life, your history. As I said, you are confused."

"I..." Deirdre looked at the faery squarely in the eye. "So you could tell me anything?"

The faery nodded. "Anything that was or is. What would you like to know?"

It was a tempting offer: all manner of mysteries ran through her head. Was there a nicer school in the city she could transfer to, where she might stay in a dormitory with roommates? Or one that was close to the orphanage? Or why did everyone dress like it was warmer than midsummer?

"You have lovely hair." The faery interrupted her thoughts, craning her long neck forward to squint at Deirdre's curls. "Do they say you are Scottish or Irish?"

"I don't know. I don't know where my parents are... from..." Her eyes widened. "Can you... tell me where I'm from? Where I'm from originally?"

The faery replied brightly, "Of course, if that is your wish. Come! Come to my tent." When Deirdre hesitated to follow, the faery pressed, "My fortunes are very accurate, if that's what worries you. Or... are you scared to know the truth?"

"I'm not scared," Deirdre replied immediately, though her stomach churned nauseatingly.

"Then come." The banshee waited until Deirdre started to follow, twisting her change purse in her hands.

"What will it cost?"

"Oh, very little. You need not worry." She glanced back at Deirdre. "I'm doing this out of self-interest, as well. I'm curious about you. For some it's easy to tell... Just look at me." She gestured to herself. "I cannot be mistaken for anything but a banshee. But you..."

"I could be Irish or Scottish, huh? All right then. I suppose it couldn't really hurt."

They turned off the street toward the entrance of a small tent the color of damp moss. She could see partially inside through the narrow entrance. The interior was brightly lit; there were no chairs or sofas, only vividly patterned cushions arranged in a circle. In the center of the circle was a large, thick stone bowl, filled with water as dark as the ocean at midnight.

As she stepped inside, Deirdre looked up; hanging from the tent's ceiling were lanterns filled with a light green-yellow glow that was unlike fire and had no warmth. But the glow was not unpleasant, and she smiled at it as she sat down on the pillow the banshee gestured her to.

"Now, what do you wish me to find, exactly?" the banshee asked, sitting down cross-legged on a pillow opposite Deirdre, her bony knees sticking out underneath her thick cloak.

Sucking in her breath, Deirdre gnawed meditatively on her bottom lip, trying to figure out how to word her thoughts. "I want to know where I'm from."

"Do you want me to tell you your birthplace then? Or do you want to know about your parents and where they are now?"

Deirdre's eyes widened. "What? Are you..." She gulped. "Are you saying my parents are alive?"

The banshee nodded.

After gaping for a moment, she asked hesitantly, "So, you could tell me where they are? How I could maybe find them?"

"Yes. Do you want to know where they are, or do you want to know how to find them?"

She cocked her head. "Isn't that the same thing?"

"Even if I tell you where they are, you may not be able to go to them. Some places are hard to reach, especially without directions."

Deirdre leaned forward slightly, hugging herself. They're alive? I always just assumed they were... No, I just wanted to believe they were dead. I hoped that was the reason I wound up at the orphanage... What if they don't want me? But still, if they ARE alive... I could see them. I wouldn't have to talk to them, but I could still see them. And maybe... The corner of her mouth twitched. Maybe they are just as weird as I am. Maybe all my family is weird... Her eyes widened. I might even have sisters or brothers of my own!

"Tell me how to find them, please," she asked.

"It shall be done." The banshee peered around Deirdre, saying, "And you're back again, I see. I will tell you now, my readings have not changed."

Looking over her shoulder, Deirdre's mouth fell open as James's brother Iain, his hand on his nightstick, stepped into the tent.

Although he kept his eyes on the banshee, he addressed her. "You shouldn't be doing this. It's dangerous for humans to be here."

Staying in her seat, she frowned at his abrasive tone and said, "It's not against the law to come here. I'm just getting my fortune told. And nothing bad has happened. I'm fine."

He looked away from the banshee just long enough to narrow his gaze on her. "You do know what time it is, yeah? You don't want to break curfew on your first night here."

Deirdre's eyes widened. "Curfew is this early? It's not even dark out! I mean, not completely. When does curfew start exactly?"

"Soon enough." He gestured outside the tent, saying, "You're going to allow James to break curfew as well then?"

Deirdre brightened instantly, craning her neck to peer around Iain. "James is here? Why doesn't he come in?"

"He's waiting outside."

Deirdre slumped a little in her seat, frowning. "Why don't you just leave? I'm fine here on my own."

"James isn't walking back home by himself, and you shouldn't either. It's not safe," Iain said, his tone softening. "So either you leave now with us and we all make it home in time, or you stay here and we're all breaking curfew."

"Don't I have a little more time?" She gestured at the banshee. "This won't take long!"

Iain opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted.

"Back and forth you go like children on a seesaw." The banshee finally spoke up, tilting her head up to grin at Iain. "If you keep at this, you'll be the one making her late."

He blinked, silent for a moment as he registered what she said. His face went a little red when the banshee let out a low chuckle. "I've got you there, soldier," the banshee said.

"Cheeky." Iain shook his head, either at her or at the banshee, or both. If Deirdre didn't know any better, she could have sworn he'd almost cracked a smile.

It was probably just a trick of the light.

"All right," Deirdre said, focusing on the banshee again. "Let's do it."

Iain sputtered uselessly for a moment before sighing and crossing his arms, apparently giving up. "I'm not leaving," he insisted, "so don't try to overcharge her or anything."

James walked up from the crowd behind him and looked past him inside the tent. A faint smile began to form as he looked at the lanterns and the dark bowl of water, but he gulped at the sight of the banshee.

"Oh, hi!" Deirdre waved at him merrily.

Iain twisted around, saw his brother, and sighed. "I told you to wait outside," he protested half-heartedly, not seeming at all surprised to see him.

The banshee grinned at him. "Would you like your fortune told, boy?"

"I..." James glanced at Iain, who shook his head firmly.

"Very well." The banshee held out her hand toward Deirdre. "A strand or two of your hair is necessary."

"You'll use them to tell the fortune?" Deirdre asked as she plucked out the strands and dropped them into her palm.

"Yes, and they're also my payment." The banshee glanced at James again. "I can use these to tell many, many fortunes."

She dropped the strands into the dark water in the basin, and immediately the water lit up, clear as a blue sky. The strands went stiff and began to spin around in the bowl, swirling the water with them. Deirdre leaned forward, and she heard James gasp behind her as flashes of the world showed in the tiny waves of the churning water. She could see tall trees, sunlight, moonlight, thatched houses, crowds of people, abandoned factories, deep caves—but it was all too quick, too small, too fleeting to make anything out of it.

The banshee held her hands out over the basin, her wide eyes glinting from the light of the bowl. "To meet your parents, child, you must leave the city. In order to find them, you must travel into the country, to the land of the Summer Court. Seek the Summer Prince; only with his aid will you be able to meet your parents."

"The Summer Prince," Deirdre repeated in a whisper, her brow furrowing. "Where is the land of the Summer Court?"

The banshee glanced at Iain; despite his initial protests, he had gone quiet, attentive. James had slipped past his brother and was watching with breathless fascination. The banshee smirked at them.

"It is to the north," she said. "In England, near Scotland, around the area once known as the Lake District."

Deirdre looked back at the basin; the light was starting to fade, the images blurring. She leaned forward, hoping to glimpse something concrete before it vanished entirely. "So I'm Scottish after all?" Her hair slipped from behind her shoulders, falling over the basin.

Before a single strand could brush the basin's surface, the banshee hissed and pushed her back. Deirdre let out a startled cry; the banshee didn't push her hard, but the moment her hand touched her, an electric jolt shot through her body. The water started to boil in the basin, and for a moment her vision went hazy; her head reeling, she slumped backward on the floor. Her limbs felt like lead, and her heart was pounding loudly, almost drowning out James asking what happened.

"My magic is not to be disturbed," the banshee said tartly, picking up the basin and rising to her feet, looking down at Deirdre through slanted eyes. Her heart still racing, she pushed herself up on her elbows unsteadily. The place where the banshee had touched her skin above her high-collared shirt was burning, though the fire was starting to recede.

"What did you do to me?" Deirdre gasped, grabbing her shoulder, looking up at the banshee.

"Magic does what it wills, at times," the banshee replied, putting the large basin down on a low shelf in a corner.

"What does that mean?" James asked quickly.

"None of your concern." The banshee pointed at James. "Beware of cats, boy. Be on your guard."

"Cats?" James and Deirdre asked in unison in the same bewildered tone.

"We're leaving, all of us," Iain said firmly; he reached down and grabbed Deirdre under one arm, ignoring her protest of "Hey!" and hauling her up and pushing her toward the exit as if she could not walk herself. He gave the banshee a hard look. "If you hurt a human... if you hurt this girl..."

James looked at Deirdre, alarmed, as if expecting her to suddenly fall over again.

"She didn't hurt me," Deirdre protested, though she still felt shaky on her feet, her quickened pulse still dying down.

"Let's just get you home before any other Iron Wardens catch you here," Iain murmured, steering her out of the tent and into the crowded street. He let go of her arm once they were walking along at a steady pace.

"Care to buy some fruit before you go?" a tall faery from a nearby stall asked, holding out a basket of the fruit that smelled so strangely familiar. Deirdre stiffened as she recognized the faery from earlier; it was the thin, balding, red-haired faery that made the grocer lock his doors.

When the faery thrust the basket in front of Iain to get his attention, he jerkily shoved the basket and the faery's hands away; the faery lost balance and fell back onto the ground. The basket fell on the street, fruit scattering everywhere and splatting wetly on the pavement.

The crowd around them froze, all eyes turning toward them, focusing on Iain. Pulling herself back up, the faery began retrieving the fruit; James leaned down and began to help her.

"James!" Iain barked. His younger brother froze, looking at the plum-sized fruit in his hands and gulping. He hastily put it into the basket and backed away, standing beside Deirdre.

The faery picked up the basket and sniffed, eyeing Iain. "You knock over my goods, then chide your brother who tries to pick up after your mess? Typical soldier." She spat the last word like it was a curse. The other faeries surrounding them began to mutter; the most human-looking nailed Iain with dirty looks.

"You'll regret selling that," Iain retorted. "You know you're breaking the law."

"He's been inhaling iron all day long." One of the faeries surrounding them hissed. "It's gone to his head."

"That's not all he's inhaled," the basket-holding faery said with a grin.

But her smile vanished when Iain produced his radio and turned it on. Just as he opened his mouth to speak into it, she held up her free hand, saying, "All right! You're correct, soldier. Don't call them here!" Her gaze flashed to James, then back to Iain. "Things get ugly when soldiers come here. You never know who could get caught in the middle."

To his credit, Iain didn't even blink at the barely veiled threat. "We're leaving. If you do this again, there will be consequences."

Her voice was smooth and placating as she stepped away, bobbing her head up and down. "Yes, yes, of course, soldier. Of course."

Turning, Iain hissed and said, "Come on" to her and James. The throngs parted for him as he headed down the street. Deirdre waited for James to go ahead of her, then followed close behind, only looking back once. The faery was picking up the rest of the fruit, and all the faeries that had been circling them had disappeared into the crowd.

Once outside of Ferriers Town, Iain insisted on escorting her back to the school. Worn out from all that had happened, she did not put up a fight. Most of the walk was dead quiet except for the occasional sound of James wiping his hands off, as if they were dirty. They did not have any fruit stains on them, but to Deirdre they still smelled slightly of the food, even from a distance.

"Is there something special about that fruit?" Deirdre asked as they turned onto the school's street. "Why is it illegal for her to sell it?"

Iain and James exchanged glances, but the younger spoke up first. "It's not good for us. It's... it'll make you sick. And it's addictive."

"Fruit makes you sick?"

"Yeah, their fruit. It's called Pan, or faery fruit." James moistened his lips, nervously looking from her to his brother and back again. "They make it themselves, you know—the faeries do. They cross-pollinate with their magic. That's the only way the fruit can exist."

"Weird." She tilted her head. "Why would something that makes you sick be addictive? Is it like drinking too much alcohol or something?"

James nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's better to stay away from it."

"It's better to stay away from Ferriers Town altogether," Iain added gruffly. "It's safer for the humans and the faeries that way."

She sighed. "If you say so."

After a moment, James asked, "What do you think she meant, about the cats? I suppose some people think they're bad luck. They aren't the cleanest of animals either."

"I wouldn't think anything of it." Iain frowned at them behind his shoulder. "It's just good that you didn't have to pay her for that rubbish."

"How do you know that it's rubbish?"

"Because," Iain said, "that's what people like that faery do, James. They tell you things you want to hear or things that you couldn't possibly disprove. It's how they manipulate you." Iain turned his back to them again. After a while, he said seriously, "It was... cruel of her to tell you that, about your parents. No one's even seen the Summer Prince in ages."

While Deirdre's first instinct was to contradict him, the strange, electrifying sensation that had run through her when the banshee touched her held her tongue. She still felt odd; her heart was still beating loudly in her ears even though it was no longer racing. She was weirdly aware of her blood pulsing in her veins as they kept walking.

When they reached the school gates, she finally remembered her manners and thanked them for walking her back. James muttered that it was no problem, a small smile on his face.

"Just try not to break curfew again," Iain said shortly, turning and beginning to head away, muttering something that sounded a lot like "country hick." Deirdre stuck her tongue out at the back of his head.

James hesitated before asking, "Are you doing something tomorrow? I-I know some things about the country. I mean, if you're going to leave the city, you know, like the fortune-teller said... I've read a lot about faeries, and... maybe you're interested?"

She blinked a few times. "Um... are you asking me if I want to talk with you about the fortune?"

James nodded vigorously. "There's this place, like a café; it's the only one in town. Iain won't be there."

She smiled. "All right!"

His eyes lit up, and his voice lost its nervous strain. "Great! So tomorrow at one? One p.m.?"

"James! Hurry up," Iain called, looking back and stopping.

"See you!" James gave one awkward wave as he hurried after his brother. Deirdre waved back, then turned and headed through the gate, beaming.

Looks like I've made at least one friend, she thought, humming.

Heading around the building instead of going through it, she stepped off the sidewalk and began to skip on the soggy lawn. After a few paces, she landed on a twig, which shot out from under her on the slippery ground. Her ankle twisted, and with a cry she pitched forward on the muddy ground.

"Ohhh..." She pushed herself up, wiping the mud off her face and blouse. "And this was all clean!"

Grumbling in irritation, she began to stand up. The moment she put weight on her ankle, pain jumped up her leg.

"Ow!"

She promptly took her weight off and eased herself to her feet more carefully. When she tested her foot again, the pain was still there, making her hiss. She glared at the twig she had slipped on, just a step away from her. Her blood was pounding in her ears.

"This is all your fault!" she snapped at it, wishing she could kick it.

Immediately her hands felt like they were burning, and the twig abruptly snapped loudly in two. She let out a startled shout, jumping back on her good leg. Her hands turned icy as her heart slowed once more.

For a while she stood there, awkwardly balanced on one foot, staring at the twig, waiting to see if it would do something else.

Nothing.

"Was I just hearing things?" She frowned at the twig. "It could've broken when I stepped on it... and maybe it just fell apart then. That makes sense... I guess."

She gave the twig one last, suspicious look before hobbling back to the dorms, rubbing her suddenly cold hands together to warm them.

Chapter Eight

Once they exited the train at Corwen, the brothers half walked, half ran through the town and up the hilly street that led to the military housing. All the shops and buildings around them were closed for the evening, darkened and empty like shells washed up on a cold, rocky shore.

While they jogged along, Iain attempted to think of some excuse as to why they were out past curfew that didn't involve mentioning Ferriers Town, as that subject was highly sensitive in their household. But as they came upon the housing, Iain still had nothing solid in mind.

A tall iron fence surrounded the community, along with a guard who opened the gate to residents and guests. The guard shook his head knowingly at James as they waited at the gate. No civilians out past curfew.

The houses were all connected and identical. Plain, small, and poorly maintained due to lack of funds. There was a small patch of a garden outside with wildflowers that was nearly overgrown with weeds. The lights were off in most of the houses, save for the Callaghan house. Smoke was curling from their chimney, which could mean only one thing: company. Their father only lit the fireplace when they had guests, as it was a waste of gas and sucked the heat from the rest of the house.

Iain and James noticed at the same time and exchanged wry glances. "The Fancy Prancers must be here," Iain said, using the scornfully crafted nickname James had invented for Boyd and Philip Prance a while ago. Iain had thought it was quite clever, and so he'd started calling the brothers by that name behind their backs to the Iron Guard. To his delight, the nickname had caught on, and now everyone in the garrison was calling them Fancy Prancers. Philip remained unaffected, while the name made Boyd red with anger every time he heard it.

"Maybe that's a good thing, for once," James suggested. "Maybe Dad won't even notice I'm out past curfew."

"James," Iain said as they reached the front door, hesitating, "why don't you go on upstairs, yeah? There's no reason for both of us to get a lecture."

James was squinting at a moth that was bouncing uselessly against the light bulb over their heads. He merely shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.

Iain reached into his pocket and produced the house key, then pushed inside. He nearly jolted when he saw his father perched on the steps right across from the door, waiting. The entryway was so dimly lit that he could only make out the human shape of his father, while his expression remained a mystery.

"Please do save whatever excuse you have planned for another time," Dad said quietly. "While I'm certain it is creative, I don't want to hear it."

There was a huge burst of laughter from the living room down the hall, and Iain could hear Boyd and Philip shouting playfully about something. He could hear the muffled, static-laced voices from the radio buzzing.

Iain shut the door behind them and began taking off his shoes before setting a foot beyond the entryway.

"It's not Iain's fault." James spoke up suddenly, stepping out from behind Iain. "We were on our way home, but I wanted to stop to look around at—"

Iain was snapped out of his quiet state and whirled around in complete disbelief at what he was hearing. He didn't know if James was thick enough to mention he'd been in Ferriers Town, but Iain wouldn't put it past him.

"As your older brother, everything you do is Iain's fault." Dad rose to his feet and stepped into the light of the hallway. He did not look stern, merely tired. "Now go to bed, James. Your brother and I have much to discuss."

James didn't budge. "I don't think I can sleep with all that noise they're making," he said, gesturing down the hall. "And won't they technically be out past curfew if they don't leave now? That's a bit hypocritical, if you ask me, even if they are with the Iron Guard."

Iain grabbed James's arm and gave him a not-too-gentle shove toward the stairs. "Don't be stupid, James," he ground out through clenched teeth. "You're exhausted from your extremely successful first day of school."

He glared at James the entire way as the younger brother climbed up the stairs and to the small, two-roomed second floor and disappeared into their bedroom. He nearly shattered his teeth when he heard James slam the door.

"Well, don't be impolite," Dad said as he started down the hallway. "Come and join our guests. We've been waiting for you to arrive for a while."

Waiting for me to fetch them more beers? Iain wondered.

That was usually his assigned task—that or washing dishes—when Philip and Boyd were over. When Iain was younger, long after Dad had sent James and Iain up to bed, Dad and the Prance brothers would all sit in the living room, throw back a few beers, and either converse rather drunkenly or listen to the latest game on the radio. When Iain was younger, he used to sneak into the hallway, crouch by the banister, and listen in with curiosity. It was always puzzling to Iain how his usually reserved father became so loquacious in strange company and how he was capable of speaking in more than sharp, critical remarks.

Mum had never liked it when Dad brought the Prance siblings over, not even the first time they'd come over when the Prance boys had been in their early teens. Dad told her to cook dinner for them and to wait on them. They'd always seemed uncomfortable whenever Mum was around, and they'd halted their conversations like she was waiting to catch them saying something wrong or curse them. Iain smiled to himself when he remembered setting the table one night and Mum had pulled him aside and told him slyly to use the cheap dishes instead of the nice china, for such wonderful company.

Iain followed his father down the hallway and into the living room, past a small table that held photographs of Mum's family and a little figure of Saint Sarah. He wondered what his father had to discuss with him, and more troublingly, why that conversation had to be held in front of Boyd and Philip.

What could I have done wrong? There's probably something I missed.

"Apologies for my absence, gentlemen," Dad said merrily. "The boys have returned unharmed."

Boyd and Philip were squished together on the small sofa in the living room in front of the fireplace, hollering about something on the radio. Boyd leaned his head back and squinted at Iain, asking, "You get me a drink?"

Iain retreated toward the kitchen, which was an open but tiny room just across from the living room. He grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and set them on the counter. Before returning to the living room, he stopped to water one of the wilting herb plants he was growing in the windowsill. He inhaled the scent of coriander, trying to push away his nervous thoughts and think about instead what recipe he could use the herb for this week.

"So," Philip called from the living room, "what was the holdup getting here? I hope no faeries gave you trouble."

Iain sighed. "There was this girl—"

"We should have known a girl was involved," Boyd chimed in with a laugh. "That's the only reason you joined the Iron Wardens, isn't it, because ladies like a man in uniform?"

"Nah," Philip chimed in also. "I haven't seen Iain with a gal in ages. A bit over that scene, are you?"

Iain hadn't thought about it. The last girl he'd had any sort of relationship with had been Elaine, and he avoided thinking of her entirely. At least he had until today. Now he intended to keep an eye out for her, lest she attempt to befriend any more students.

"So what about this lass then?" Philip prompted.

Iain nodded. "There was this girl from James's school. She's new to the city, doesn't know much of anything. She got herself into some trouble." As Dad sat in his chair by the sofa, Iain added, "She was from Trinity, by the way."

Dad straightened up in his chair, intrigued. "Was she?"

"Yes. You might want to check in on your staff there, the educators. She was pretty clueless about the faeries and everything," he said, more joking than not.

His mind sped unwillingly back once more to what he saw at the fortune-telling tent, and his chest tightened. There was the strange, yellow glow of the light, the water, dark as blood, swirling endlessly. And what that faery had told the girl.

The thought of the faery telling an orphan girl lies about her parents made his blood boil, and he was surprised by how angry he felt. She was too naive.

If she's not more careful, the city will chew her up and spit her back out.

He'd seen it happen to so many. He'd seen people like Elaine that were swallowed up by addiction. Kindness hardened by a city that couldn't abide by it. In his brief few months as an Iron Warden, he'd seen more of the city's bad side than he'd ever wanted to. He'd seen new recruits, young, like him, giving up or breaking down because they let it all get to them. They hadn't learned to block it out like he did. He'd had to learn the hard way.

Caring hadn't accomplished anything useful, like he'd thought it would when he was younger. But that was a child's sentiment. Caring about Elaine hadn't made her want to change. And caring about the state of the city hadn't stopped the violence. Action was practical, which was why he'd hoped by joining the Iron Guard he could start making some real improvements.

"Does this girl have a name?" Dad asked.

"I think it was Deirdre."

"What kind of trouble did Deirdre find herself in?"

Iain opened his mouth to reply but then thought better of it. He was not sure why, but he felt he should keep much of the story to himself to protect her privacy. "She was interested in Ferriers Town. Didn't know it was forbidden. It has a kind of allure."

"I imagine it might, to a certain kind of person. The weak-willed, for instance." His father frowned. "Was she there for Pan?"

Iain swallowed hard, shaking his head in answer. "Anyway, there was no harm done. I found her and told her off, and now she's back home, safe and sound."

"She just walked into Ferriers Town for no reason?"

Iain just nodded.

"She heard the goblin men and their calls of 'come buy, come buy,' and she couldn't resist, could she?" Dad was smiling faintly like he was in on some joke. Whatever joke he was making, it went completely over Iain's head, as he had probably intended.

Iain shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever her reason, I think she learned her lesson. Some faery must have struck her with a curse or something."

"A curse?"

Iain scratched the back of his neck. "This faery touched her, and she acted like it hurt her. She seemed okay." He tried not to think about what kind of curse a faery could have cast on her.

She'll be all right, won't she? Cursed or not, she has to be more careful. But maybe she'll make it, with a nice kid like James to help her out. She'll be just fine once she settles in.

"Are you sure she was human?" Dad asked with a chuckle.

Iain scoffed outwardly. He thought this might have been the longest casual conversation they'd had in ages. "She looked human to me," he said. He honestly hadn't given her appearance much thought.

"How descriptive of you. What exactly did she look like?"

"I don't know. She was a ginger."

"Where's that beer at?" Boyd called after a moment of silence.

Before Iain went back into the living room, he ducked out of sight and furiously shook both cans of beer, grinning to himself. He walked back out into the room and handed the drinks to Boyd and Philip. Now all he had to do was wait.

"Did you hear the news?" Boyd asked him.

"What?" Iain hardly heard him, focusing on Boyd about to open his beer can.

"Oh Lord." Philip beamed and slapped Boyd on the back heartily. "I've heard this story about fifteen times today, myself. But it's a good one. You're in for a treat."

"I took down a beast today. A Fae wolf, big as a tank. Right outside the city."

Iain looked up at Boyd and then to his father. Dad nodded in confirmation. He had never heard of a creature like that being so close to civilization; usually the creatures kept to the mountains in the north.

"It was one hell of a firefight. I was in the front lines. It was my shot that did it in." Boyd leaned back in his seat, gesturing grandly with his beer can. "Too bad you and Philip were too busy chasing lasses out of Ferriers Town to see it."

Philip smiled, obviously taking no offense. "I do wish I could have seen it. Always wanted to have a go against a Fae monster, myself. How 'bout you, Iain?"

Iain used to fight pretend monsters in the park as a child, protecting civilians from them and making the city a better place to live. As he grew older he imagined what it would be like when he joined the Iron Infantry one day. Since joining the Iron Wardens, he hadn't given it much thought. He was too busy to think.

Like I would survive against a Fae monster, as little as the Wardens trained us for that. James would starve without me...

But at the thought of seeing a great creature like how Boyd described, of facing it down, a familiar but long-buried spark of excitement stirred in his chest. He leaned forward unintentionally.

"Yeah," Iain breathed. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"Good Lord, Callaghan!" Philip chuckled in disbelief. "You're more bonkers than I thought. I was only joking."

Iain was unfazed. He kept thinking about what it would be like, to be in the fight of his life. It would be different from anything else he'd experienced, he reasoned. He'd fought before, been hurt badly before. It wouldn't be like taking a hard hit from Boyd. It would be simpler. A Fae monster wouldn't have a reason to hurt him other than the fact he was human.

"Iain," Dad said suddenly, and he snapped out of his thoughts and came back to reality. "Come over here, please."

Iain obediently walked over to where his father sat. "What do you need?"

"Consider this a reward, if you will." Dad held out a key to Iain.

Iain looked from the key to his father's face. His father's green eyes—so much like James's—were bright with warmth.

"I don't understand," Iain said slowly. He took the key in his hand.

"There's not much to understand. I've bought you a flat."

"In the city?"

"Of course. And it isn't one of those rubbish flats you've been eyeing either. It's quite close to your work, and it's near a shopping district as well."

Iain could not quite believe what he was hearing. He stared at the fireplace, suddenly transfixed by the sparking embers. One of the logs cracked in the fireplace like a bone, and a few charred pieces were spat onto the floor below.

After a few empty seconds, Dad frowned. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

"You've made the boy speechless, Callaghan." Philip spoke up mercifully. "That's a first."

Dad chuckled in agreement but never took his eyes off Iain.

"I don't... know what to say," he said truthfully.

"That's fine," Dad replied tightly. "I thought that after all the hard work you've put in, you deserve this. I am proud of you, you know, for completing basic training. It was a step in the right direction. I had my doubts about the direction your life was going, Iain, but it appears I was wrong. All of that can be behind us now."

Iain repeated the words in his mind, over and over to make sure he'd heard correctly. It was strange, hearing the exact words he'd been hoping to hear for some time.

"Thank you," he practically croaked. "I mean it. Thank you."

"I only ask that you continue to work hard and fulfill your duties for the betterment of this country. If you can manage that, we won't have any problems."

"Sure," Iain replied distractedly. "Yeah. Of course."

Before Iain knew what was happening, Dad stood up and pulled him in for a quick, tense embrace. Iain awkwardly patted him on the back, as one might burp an infant, and wished a quick death upon himself so he could escape the embarrassment.

Dad pulled back and turned to Boyd and Philip, who were watching with their jaws nearly on their laps. "That's why you're here tonight," Dad said to them, "to celebrate Iain's accomplishments."

Iain closed his hand around the key until it dug into his skin.

The flat meant nothing to him, but the gesture, the action validated his father's words to Iain. His father was proud of him. That meant everything.

When he and James were younger, before Mum had left, before the Prance siblings had entered their lives, Iain remembered just how good things could be. He remembered Mum and Dad taking him and James out to the countryside to play and run. He remembered Dad telling him rare, personal stories about his time as a young soldier in the Iron Guard, just to be kept between the two of them.

He wasn't certain when things had started to change between them. Maybe it had been when Dad had found the Prance siblings and started to spend more time with Boyd and Philip than with him and James. Maybe it had been when Mum left.

Iain only knew that the hostility had cemented between them when Dad had found out about Elaine and his Pan usage. He had let his father down, selfishly shirked his responsibilities as a son and as James's older brother and protector. He'd been paying penance for that mistake ever since.

"Of course," Dad said, "I'll come around now and then to check on the state of the apartment. But if you keep it as tidy as you do the house, then there should not be an issue—"

"What about James?"

"What?" Dad eyed him curiously, as if he'd forgotten to whom the name belonged.

"James should be closer to his schooling, yeah? He could stay with me."

Dad pondered that for a long moment before answering gradually, "Yes. That might be... a possibility."

Iain started to laugh disbelievingly. All uniformity and caution flew out the window, and he felt like he could do anything. He turned to Boyd and Philip, grinning, and he threw his hat off and onto the table at their feet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so good while sober.

"Congratulations, Iain," Philip said, smiling genuinely.

Boyd, however, was staring fixedly at him. Iain had seen that look many times before; it usually preceded a beating, back before Iain had his growth spurt and Boyd could still do it without fear of retribution. Despite being throttled many times by Boyd, he'd never told anyone about it, so as not to give Boyd the satisfaction. Now all the satisfaction belonged to Iain, and he savored it.

"I'm going to go say good night to James before I leave for my shift," Iain said, all his words coming out too quickly and jumbled. He darted off before anyone could say anything.

When Iain went to burst into the bedroom, he found James was out of his bed and sorting through a pile of books on the floor. The door caught on a mound of James's clothing, which he'd thrown on the floor. Iain's side of the room, in contrast, was always kept tidy; his bed was always made. He made it a point to own as few belongings as possible. James collected trinkets, books, and various clothing items like a magpie hoarded shiny objects.

"What the—" Iain struggled with the door, which pushed back and nearly hit him in the face. He was still thrilled but a little irritated by the time he managed to shove the door open.

James looked up and hurriedly attempted to hide his books behind his back, as if Iain would ever tattle on him for staying up to read. Iain had never told on anyone in his life.

James's brow creased in concern. "How bad was it?"

Pointing to the wide grin on his own face, Iain asked, "Do I look like it went badly?"

James sniffed. "I'm not sure. Sometimes you make that face when you're upset, like a madman."

Iain ignored the strange insult and then began to tell James what happened in detail. He told him about the key, about the flat that was waiting for him, and the looks on Boyd and Philip's faces. He even told James about what he'd done to their beers.

Finally Iain told him the best news of all: "And Dad said you can live with me. You can live in the city, just like we talked about. Isn't that brilliant?"

James's face flickered from a smile, to a confused frown, to a smile again. "That—that's great, Iain. I can't believe it!"

"I can't believe it either, to be honest. You'll move in with me, yeah?"

"Yeah." James nodded. "It's just..."

But Iain did not hear was James was about to say. All he heard was Boyd swearing up a storm downstairs, choking and coughing on his exploding beverage. James had to bury his face in his pillow so no one would hear him howling with laughter. Iain went purple in the face, trying to keep from exploding himself.

"I'll see you in the morning when I get home, yeah?" he choked out, controlling his voice with effort.

Chuckling, James replied, "Maybe. I might head out early to do some research."

"Research? You've only just started school, you egghead. You sure you're not meeting your girlfriend instead?"

Iain grinned triumphantly as James's face flushed.

James protested, his voice cracking, "She isn't—"

"Just make sure you pay for her meal. She seems like a nice girl."

James scoffed. "You didn't seem to think that earlier!"

"Yeah, that was when I was on duty and she was breaking curfew." Iain grinned. "As a civilian and your brother, I think she might be all right. At any rate, since she's from the country, you should help her adjust to city life."

"I'm not meeting her." His younger brother shrugged, running his fingers slowly over the face of a book. "I just want to get ahead. I've got a lot to prove, you know."

When Iain leaped back down the stairs, Boyd was waiting for him in the darkened hallway. He was standing in front of the entryway table, fiddling with the statue of Saint Sarah among Mum's photographs.

Iain halted, watching him for a moment. He bit back a laugh when the strong scent of alcohol reached him from the dark stains on Boyd's shirt. Deciding to ignore Boyd and that he'd messed with him enough for one night, he made his way to the door and began slipping on his boots.

"So you finally have what you want." Boyd turned and walked up to him.

Iain pulled on his laces sharply. "The only thing I want right now is to get to my post before my shift starts, yeah?"

Boyd was not amused. "General Callaghan may have you in his good graces again against his better judgment, but you ain't fooling me. You ain't got his purpose in mind."

Iain finished tying his boots and straightened up to his full height, standing a few inches taller than Boyd. He met Boyd's glowering stare evenly.

"I'm gonna be honest here," Iain said. "I don't know what you're on about, and I don't care enough to ask—"

"The general's a good man. He's got a soft spot for blood, so he can't see it." Boyd's hand flew past Iain's face and rested on the doorframe. "You'll just take his money, then cut your ties to him, just like your Gypsy-trash mother."

Iain did not flinch at the slur. He took a slow, steadying breath, blank-faced. "I'm going to be late for my shift," he said, and wrenched the door open.

"Fae monsters aren't the only things I know how to put down, you know. I can put down a wild animal too."

That was a threat. A stupid threat but a threat nonetheless.

Iain thought absently that if Boyd were any smarter, he could be a major threat, and he could maneuver his way somewhere with the higher-ups of the city one day like he'd always talked about.

"Well," Iain deadpanned, "if I ever see that rabid fox rummaging through the rubbish around here again, you'll be the first bloke I call. Just give me a soldier's discount for extermination, will you?"

Boyd sneered. "You're no soldier."

In response, Iain glanced down at his uniform, then back up at Boyd, and then down at his uniform again. Even someone as thick as Boyd could take the hint.

"A soldier does what he's told without question," Boyd continued on, as thick as usual. "A good soldier makes a good weapon." With the final word, he jabbed his finger against Iain's chest.

"Listen, Boyd." Iain adjusted his beret on his head swiftly (swift enough in movement to make Boyd back off). "We work separately, and now that I won't be living here, we've got no reason to see each other again. Far as I see it, whatever rows we had are over and done."

"Are they now?"

"Yeah." Iain stepped out into the cooling night air and turned back to look at Boyd, "That's lucky for you. That means I'll forget that comment you made about my mum, and I won't knock your teeth out."

Without another word, Iain left, feeling that all his worries were almost behind him now. His conversation with Elaine no longer jabbed at the back of his skull. His thoughts of a naive orphan girl taking advice from a wicked faery faded too, but the images of what had happened in Ferriers Town tonight did not leave completely. He couldn't shake his nagging outrage that James's friend might be taken advantage of, might believe the lies the faery told her.

He thought of what that same faery woman had said to him, years ago, when Elaine had dragged him there to restock her supply of Pan, what he had wanted so desperately to believe: "You'll see your mother again."

She'd lied.

Chapter Nine

Alan grabbed his wedding ring from the nightstand and slipped it on his finger. He often wondered why he made the effort when his wife was no longer there to see the gesture. He decided it was out of habit. It was the one thing he did consistently without purpose.

He got up from his bed and began getting ready for the day. Although he would not be going in to work today, he dressed in his full uniform regardless.

Before leaving the room, he stopped short of buttoning his shirt fully, standing in front of the mirror above his dresser. His eyes narrowed on the red, corded scar tissue on his collarbone that extended down his chest and wrapped around his back. He prodded at the scar with his fingertips gently, the flesh blanching white under the pressure, but felt nothing but numbness; all the nerves in his skin in the scarred areas were burned away by the blast. He'd been luckier than most to find adequate cover during the Cataclysm, when the bombs had fallen on old London nearly thirty-eight years ago tomorrow.

Alan halted in the living room on his way out. He stood in front of the fireplace, staring at the line of his family photographs along the brick mantel. Picking one up, he held it in the light of the window. In the photo was a small boy, barely a year old, being held by his mother on the front steps of their London home. He knew the child to be himself, yet he felt no connection to the carefree boy. It was sunny; everyone was squinting or shading their eyes with their hands. Around them, two siblings were gathered. Their father was taking the photograph.

The woman seemed to be staring straight through the cracked glass, through time, even. The look in the woman's blue eyes was telling: she knew what day tomorrow was. She knew, and she seemed to be asking what he would do about it to make it right. Every year, she asked. This time he finally had an answer for her. This time maybe she would rest.

The morning air was brisk and damp as Alan stepped outside and made his way to his vehicle parked behind the building. Dawn had arrived, and Alan could see the white sun through a layer of fog as he got into his car. He guessed it would be one of those rare but cherished sunny days once the morning mist cleared. Sunny weather would be perfect for where he was going. He hoped the sun would stay for the memorial tomorrow.

As Alan drove toward the gate, he spotted a man limping along the other side of the iron fence, slipping in and out of view like a ghost. Maybe he was a ghost. He was carrying a walking stick; every few paces, he would strike his stick against the metal fence, creating an echoing, bell-like chime. Alan leaned forward in his seat unconsciously, eyes widening. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he watched the figure headed back toward him.

As the man neared, Alan got a good look at him. His skin was a dark bronze, his dark brown hair was nearly hidden under the cap he wore, and he had a neatly kept beard. Recognition brought both relief and disbelief.

As Alan drove toward the gated exit, he rolled down his window to speak to the guard on duty. "How long has that vagrant been loitering around the building?"

"General." The guard nodded respectfully, before shooting a look in the direction of the figure. "All morning. Said he needed to speak to your son. I told him he'd have to wait. Gave me this note to give to him." He handed the note to Alan.

Alan scanned the writing and frowned. It was the name of a business in the city, with a date and time attached. He crumpled the note in his fist and tossed it in the back seat. "Whatever you do, do not let that man into this complex. His name is Marko, and he's a known felon."

The guard's eyes widened.

"Which way did he come from?"

The guard pointed to a street that led to one of the rougher neighborhoods in the area, along with a field that was once home to a factory. It was now an empty lot with only the skeletal remains of the building left. Now it was used to harbor the homeless. Before the Fae had started using the place as a refuge, Alan had occasionally left blankets and clothing there.

He could not fathom why Marko had returned. Perhaps, even after Alan cost the man his career, home, and reputation, he still had not learned not to meddle in his affairs. Perhaps he needed a reminder.

He'd always assumed that Marko had something to do with Kallista's absence. He knew that Marko never stopped wanting her, even after she broke off her engagement to Marko and married Alan instead. But after questioning him years ago and receiving no confirmation of his theory, Alan had given up on that lead.

Alan twisted his wedding band around his finger absently. He liked to believe that Kallista was with her family, that she was happy there. He liked to believe that she hadn't lied to him and had taken his words seriously when he'd warned her not to do anything foolish, not to get in the way of his purpose. He liked to believe she was smarter than that, that she had some sense, some instinct of self-preservation.

As he exited the property, Alan grabbed his radio from the passenger seat and contacted one of the commanders. "Send a couple of soldiers to clear out the squatters from the field in Corwen again. There've been complaints of suspicious individuals."

He wondered if Marko knew that contacting Iain would be a waste of his time. Whatever it was that Marko thought he could say to reach Iain, his loyal soldier would not believe the words of some stranger over his own father. Trust did not come easily to Iain. Alan knew he had nothing to worry about, and his chest swelled with pride for the first time in a while when he thought of his firstborn.

Alan drove a short distance before parking his car along the street by a pay phone and stepped out to make a call to his secretary. "Edith, I'm calling to inform you that I won't be in for work today."

"Hmm." Edith was soft-spoken, but what she said was always clear and distinct, even over the phone. "So you'll be working outside the office. Very well. I'll cancel your appointments." There was a pause, then she asked, "Where will you be going? I need a location, just in case."

"It occurred to me how long it's been since I've checked in on the Sisters at Trinity. I'd like to pay them a visit."

"And I'm sure they've been terrorizing the locals in your absence," Edith said. Alan knew she was being sarcastic, even though she seemed incapable of making her voice have a sarcastic or humorous tone of any kind—it always stayed soft and flat, like she was reading a book without intonation to someone aggrieved with a headache. "The villagers will bow to you in the streets as you drive up."

He ignored her weak attempts at humor. "I think I may have found a potential candidate."

"Magic at a nunnery? It's like the Dark Ages all over again." Edith sniffed. "Be sure to stop them from all that astronomy and chemistry they're teaching. It can only be witchcraft."

Alan hung up on her.

As he had predicted, the weather in the countryside was lovely. As he drove down a gravel road past bleating sheep, the sun broke through the clouds, and the city mist and smog seemed a world away, replaced by rolling green hills. He wondered why he didn't travel to the countryside more often, but he already knew the answer: Fae. He could never take his sons to the country for an outing of more than an hour, and he hadn't since they were still children. The only time had been when Kallista had been at the end of her tether with the boys, and she'd insisted they run around and get out all their energy in the fresh air.

Perhaps one day the land will be safe enough for that again.

Trinity orphanage came into view, and soon he was driving off the winding dirt road leading to it and parking in the grass next to the large front door. No sooner had he got out than the door sprung open, and Mother Cunigunde, accompanied by an Indian sister—Sister Teresa, he recalled—who was shamelessly staring, curious, grinning, walked out.

"General Callaghan, how pleasant to see you." Mother Cunigunde almost smiled, gesturing him toward the door in a hospitable manner.

"Pleasant, yes," Alan agreed, following her inside, heading down the hall toward her office. "The weather is quite pleasant, as well. I imagine the children will enjoy their time outside today." He passed one of the stained glass windows, peering at the view through its multicolored lens. They turned into her office, and Sister Teresa closed the door halfway behind him.

Alan turned and stared at the chair in front of the Mother's desk until she offered him a seat. "I'm afraid that the reason for my visit is less than pleasant," he said, sitting down.

"Is something troubling you?" she asked, sitting upright but not stiffly.

"Oh, I doubt it's of much concern. It's just that I've run into one of your girls in the city. She found herself in a bit of trouble with the law, is all. Nothing to fret over, certainly." Alan pretended to think for a moment. "I believe her name was Deirdre."

"Yes, I suspected she might have some difficulty adjusting to city life. But that is exactly why I sent her there." Mother folded her hands on her lap. "She's the type that learns only from experience. And the only way she could learn what society expects of her is to go and live the life of an average city girl. But she doesn't need taught twice. I suspect any trouble she had will never happen again."

Alan's gaze shifted to the little crucifix on the Mother's desk, then back to her. "Now, I would hate for you to think I'm questioning your methods or the way you teach the children, so please, don't think that when I say that I'm... confused by your statement." He smiled thinly. "You knew full well from the start that she'd be a disruptive force in the city then? You knew since— Well, when did she arrive here?"

"A little less than seventeen years ago. And as I recall, you have two boys near her age, General." She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you are familiar with giving them the freedom to make their own mistakes or earn their own triumphs? We never plan for them to choose the wrong thing. But we trust them to behave well, even when they are at fault. She is a lively girl but not an ill-intentioned or especially ill-mannered one. She would have made no mistakes greater than your own sons, I should guess. And you have yet to tell me what sort of disruption she caused."

"There's nothing wrong with a lively girl, Mother Cunigunde. But what about a girl who's drawn inexplicably to a town of faeries and defies an enforced curfew to loaf about in said town, doing God knows what?"

She sighed. "General, we've raised girls who have turned out less than perfect in the past. Why, even one girl five years ago got caught up in a gang in Neo-London thanks to her no-good boyfriend and was put in jail for smuggling Pan. And yet I didn't hear anything about that save for a letter from your secretary. Why are you here? Either Deirdre has done something far worse than stay out past her bedtime and roam about, like teenagers are wont to, or you've some other purpose for coming here. We're both busy people; I'd appreciate it if you were forthright with me."

"My purpose for coming here was merely to quell any concerns I had about the state of this facility and its staff. Unfortunately, my concerns have only increased," Alan said slowly. "I'll be needing all your paperwork on Deirdre."

Alan stood and rested his hands on the desk, leaning across to meet Mother Cunigunde's glare, asking in a low voice, "I wonder if you knew all along you had a Fae child living in your midst, interacting with unsuspecting human girls?"

"I'd appreciate evidence for such an accusation, General," Mother replied casually, standing up and opening the nearest file cabinet. "At any rate, no evil faery can come within a mile of the church. You know that as well as I do." She handed him the file.

Alan took the file from her. "When you have been studying and dealing with Fae as long as I have, there comes a point where you no longer need evidence to tell. All the evidence I need is here in this file. And when I do find it, I suspect the city will raise hell about it, if you'll pardon my phrasing."

Alan considered her comment on evil faeries—if such a concept could even be applied to their kind—and their aversion to churches for a moment, before chuckling lightly. "Imagine that," he said, glancing at the sturdy, old walls of the building, "being held back by an idea, a fiction, an ideology they hold in contempt."

Mother Cunigunde smiled thinly. "Shame they don't give your armies the same respect."

Alan mirrored her expression. "I'll be on my way now that I have everything I came for. I'll leave you to enjoy this nice weather while it lasts." He reached the door and opened it, nodding to Sister Teresa standing just outside. "I'm certain I'll be back to chat with you again soon. I can only hope my next visit will be just as pleasant."

Alan waited until he reached his car before opening the file and scanning its contents. Most of the information was inconsequential, but he knew exactly what to look for. He was distracted by the small square headshot of her that was attached with a paperclip: a round smiling face dotted with freckles, red hair that extended far out of frame, blue eyes so light they could be purple...

"You've always been into trouble then, Deirdre?" Alan asked her photograph. His pulse began to quicken as he scanned the document faster and faster, absorbing the information. He felt a rush of excitement.

He let out a breathy laugh, then tut-tutted disapprovingly. "Oh dear... sneaking outside, sulking indoors, refusing to eat certain foods, a penchant for mischief..." It all sounded quite normal fare for a British child, but all together, it formed an image in Alan's mind of a classic case of a faery growing up within the human fold. "Those girls must have hated you a lot to lock you up like that. Your reaction was quite severe. I expect you had it coming."

Now, he merely had to confirm his theory with a test, of sorts. Before Alan set the file aside, after a moment of hesitation, he took the photograph from the folder and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

Chapter Ten

As Deirdre had hoped, Ms. Becket had not noticed her absence. After getting ice for her ankle, Deirdre occupied herself by chatting to the younger girls, who all seemed to find her a bit weird and funny. More than once, Deirdre had the odd feeling that she was being made fun of, but she didn't care; it was better than being alone.

Ms. Becket demanded lights be out at nine p.m. sharp. That didn't bother Deirdre, though it did take her longer than usual to fall asleep. She was used to sharing a room with at least five other girls; the room was too quiet, too still. She found herself even missing Louise, who had earned the nickname "Buzz Saw Louise."

The next morning she practically jumped out of bed; sunlight was streaming through her window, and she felt so refreshed, her ankle entirely pain-free, she was certain she must have slept in close to noon. But when she checked the small clock in her room, it was not even eight a.m. After sighing despondently and moping around for a moment, she got dressed and rushed downstairs without bothering to brush her hair.

As Deirdre bounded down the stairs three at a time, a robe-clad Ms. Becket gave her a look of horrified bemusement.

"When's breakfast?" Deirdre asked, clasping her hands and grinning.

"On Saturdays, we fend for ourselves in the dorms, even me." She gestured to the kitchen. "There's plenty in the pantry."

When Deirdre dashed out of the kitchen a minute later with a plate laden with bread and cheese and leaped onto the seat across from her, Ms. Becket said, "Someone sure is chipper. Got a date already?"

"No, I'm just meeting someone at one, at some café." She frowned. "Where is the café?"

"I can give you directions. Who are you meeting?"

"James, a boy who goes to the school."

Ms. Becket nodded her head approvingly. "So it's a date."

Deirdre giggled. "No, that'd be weird."

"A lot of men fancy redheads, or so I've been told. He probably thinks it's a date."

"But he's young! I mean, he can't be older than thirteen... maybe fourteen..."

"Thirteen-year-olds go on dates, Red."

Her eyes widened as she gaped. "Seriously? That is so weird! Why would their parents let them waste their time like that?"

Ms. Becket just shrugged noncommittally, though she began watching Deirdre, especially as the girl silently prayed over her meal, as though she were a mildly interesting sideshow at a circus.

After she finished and Ms. Becket began to pour herself a fresh cup of tea (she didn't offer any to Deirdre), the teacher said, "You were out late last night. I assume you'll be more careful to be in before it's dark in the future?"

Deirdre nodded. "I really did think I had more time. It won't happen again. I promise."

"I should hope so."

"There sure are a lot of rules in the city, aren't there?"

"I suppose." Ms. Becket paused to sip on her tea, then gestured down at the newspaper. "Most of them are justified; it's a bloody mess in here and outside. Did you hear about that monster yesterday?"

"Monster?"

"One nearly got to the city walls. Horrible, isn't it? It's all King Eadred's fault."

Deirdre furrowed her brow; she was unused to hearing adults talk this way about authority figures. "Why is it his fault?"

Asking this was a mistake, as it prompted Ms. Becket to launch into a lengthy list of grievances about her sovereign ruler. She had opinions about everything: the way he ran the military, the way he handled city policy, the way he handled the budget, his hairstyle, the fact that he knew a little bit of Welsh, etc. etc. etc. Soon Deirdre began to nod in reply without really listening, partially because she didn't understand most of it and partially because she didn't know if she believed Ms. Becket. The nuns almost never even mentioned politics, and the villagers had their complaints, but they were mostly about taxes. Some of Ms. Becket's concerns seemed both unrealistic and nitpicky—who cared about the age median in parliament or whether or not the king wore real fur coats as opposed to faux fur?

When Ms. Becket stopped to take another sip of tea, Deirdre asked, "Do you ever see him around the city?"

"The king? Of course not! He has other ways to waste his time."

"Oh." Deirdre leaned back in her chair, a bit disappointed. It would have been interesting to be able to write back to the orphanage that she had seen the king driving by on a daily basis.

I guess that was a LITTLE unrealistic. It still would have been neat...

As Deirdre finished her last bite of breakfast, Ms. Becket said, "Well, since you've got free time, you can use it to begin studying."

Deirdre was crestfallen. "But we haven't even been to any classes yet! And I wanted to explore the city more."

"You're here because you have to repeat classes, right?" Ms. Becket nailed her with a look. "You need all the studying time you can get. You know you're the first student we've ever had who had to repeat classes? I bet those nuns taught you to pray before they taught you to think, hmm?"

Her face flushing hot, Deirdre clenched her fists so hard her fingernails dug into her palms. "That's not true!"

Ms. Becket, unperturbed, had gone to take another sip of tea; suddenly the handle cracked and shattered, the cup falling, the hot liquid splashing onto her lap.

Swearing, she hopped to her feet and began cleaning it up. Deirdre started, her mouth falling open.

"I..." She felt like apologizing, but the words died on her throat.

"Go get ice, you daft girl," Ms. Becket snapped. "Hurry!"

Quickly she dashed in and grabbed a chunk from the icebox, delivering it to the teacher. She applied it immediately.

"And this was a new robe." She shot a foul look at the remains of the cup on the table. "That's what I get for using imported teacups!"

"Do they break easily?" Deirdre asked.

"Well, they aren't very well made, so it's no surprise this one gave out on me."

Remembering the twig from last night, Deirdre pressed, "So, has one broken like this before?"

Ms. Becket frowned. "What do you mind? And aren't you supposed to be studying? Stop fussing and go on!"

Deirdre nodded and slowly walked upstairs as the teacher called after her, "And brush your hair! You look like some wild, unwashed savage."

Aside from a break for early lunch, Deirdre spent the rest of the morning reading the few texts provided yesterday for class. They were all things she had learned about two years ago or were vastly simplified versions of the material she had failed last year. She'd be able to pass this year for sure. But she wound up rereading the same page for the fourteenth time after accidentally skimming it again, her mind replaying the cup and twig incidents.

It's not like I could have caused those. She looked up from her desk at the yellow wallpaper, cupping her face in her hands. But that feeling... My heart was racing both times. It was the same as when the banshee pushed me. Did she do something to me? Like curse me or something? Is something going to break every time I get mad? Ooh, I don't think I like the sound of that...

She licked her lips, sitting up straight. But maybe those were just flukes. I just need to test this out and make sure...

Turning around in her seat, she looked meditatively at her small bed, drumming her fingers on her knees. Then she stood up, walked over to the bed, and swiftly kicked the sideboard.

She let out a cry of pain; the impact was harder than she had anticipated. She sat back down, clutching her foot, but kept her gaze on the sideboard, wishing for it to have a small crack in it. She held her breath.

Nothing happened.

She tried a couple of different things; thinking of things that made her mad, jabbing herself with a pencil and then willing it to snap, and even once punching that hideous wallpaper, but to no avail. Eventually she decided what happened must have both been accidents, and she sat back down to study.

She wrote down everything she did in order to report her studies; she had a tendency to slack off or immediately forget what she had studied. As soon as it was quarter past twelve, she threw her books down on her bed and jumped up, grabbing her change purse and rushing out. She doubled back to grab her study time notes, then hurried back out again.

As she reached the common room, Ms. Becket reappeared from her downstairs quarters with a stack of books. After the teacher put them on the table, Deirdre handed her the note.

"What's this?" she asked, taking the paper and squinting at it.

"It's what I managed to study since breakfast."

"Did you take any breaks?"

"Not really, except for lunch." The time she spent beating up her belongings and willing them to split in two felt more like work than a break.

Ms. Becket raised her eyebrows. "No wonder you're repeating a year, Red. But it's enough to keep your date." Completely ignoring Deirdre's protests that it wasn't a date, she pulled a pencil from her pocket and began to write something on the back of the note.

"Here's the café's address and directions there." She gave the note to Deirdre. "Don't be out too long; you're here to study, remember."

Deirdre nodded, then ran out of the room and straight down the hall. As she closed the door behind her, the last thing she heard was Ms. Becket tut-tutting at her.

It was a cloudy, mild day. The cool wind that escorted her down the street was not from the south; instead of smell of the sea, it brought oily, smoky, foreign city scents. The streets and sidewalks were crammed with people, either rushing to work or desperate to enjoy themselves on the weekend. She was ignored as she walked alone, following the directions devotedly (though often having to backtrack after making the wrong turn while distracted).

There was just so much to see: men and women in crisp professional garb, old men loitering or smoking on benches, and families rushing about. Most families only had one or two children. A large family with several boys and girls passed her down the sidewalk. The father and mother were both ginger, and she briefly wondered if her own parents both shared her hair color.

A car honking brought her back to reality, and she barely managed to dash away before the car sped past her. The driver, windows down, shouted at her angrily as he passed.

Spinning around, she shrieked back at the car, "Watch where you're going, jerk!"

On the last word, her voice pitched; at that moment, the bright, shining hubcaps on the car began to turn brown. They got darker as they corroded in an instant, turning into dust before her eyes. The body of the car collapsed onto the street and, with nothing to stop its momentum, it screeched along until it ran into the curb and then into a lamppost, scattering pedestrians.

Deirdre started back; her hands were shaking and her throat was dry. The driver wasn't moving; he had hit his head on the wheel. Bystanders were beginning to gather curiously. Some of them looked scared, and she heard someone shout for the soldiers, saying it must have been the work of faeries.

Promptly Deirdre turned and hurried away; the weakness in her legs was the only thing keeping her from running.

Soon she reached the café. It was an old pub that had been opened up, featuring three french doors opened wide, letting in light from the expanded outdoor seating area. The chairs were packed with young people. Although there were several groups of friends, most were clearly couples on dates. Hugging herself, still shaken from the car crash, she searched through the crowd for James. She stared bemusedly at just how many couples were composed of young women with low-cut shirts and young men not making eye contact as they chatted and flirted. Again, she wondered how these women weren't getting chilled with so much skin showing.

The girl of one pair noticed her staring and shot her a dirty look. Flushing, she turned and nearly jumped out of her skin to find James right behind her, silent as the grave. She shrieked and jumped back.

"Hi," he said, smiling. He was holding up a large, stuffed satchel with one hand with difficulty.

"Good heavens, you're quiet!" Deirdre exclaimed, hand on her heart as she let out a nervous giggle.

James didn't seem to know how to answer that, so he pointed inside the open café doors. "How about we sit inside? Bit chilly out here."

She agreed and they headed inside, James leading her to a vacant spot in the corner of the café. He put his satchel heavily on the table, making it quake.

"What's all that? School books?" Deirdre asked, sitting down and crossing her legs, swinging her midair foot restlessly.

"No, this is..." He looked at her, his eyes once again gleaming with excitement. "This is all I've collected about the country where faeries live."

"Oh. Like the Summer Court?"

He nodded and began pulling books and notebooks out; he stacked the books randomly but kept the notebooks close to him and out of her reach. She noticed all of them had the same handwriting and assumed they were all his notes. Recognizing one of the thick books, she picked it up.

"I know this! I read it in the orphanage library all the time." She turned the book so the plain, battered, red cover faced him. "Arthurian Faery Stories. They even have the one told by the Wife of Bath! I used to love it until one of the girls explained it to me a couple of years ago."

"Oh, that's..." James looked around quickly, checking for eavesdroppers, then lowered his voice as he continued, "That book is kind of banned. I'd better put it back; I didn't realize it was in there."

"What? Banned?" Deirdre hugged the book protectively. "Why would they do that? That's completely mad! It doesn't have any really bad lies or anything. That's the only reason books are banned from the orphanage library..."

James shrugged, reaching for the book. "The faeries weren't evil enough, so eventually it was labeled as dangerous."

"But not all faeries are bad; that's what we were taught."

"Really? I think so... I mean, what else were you taught?"

"Um... well, Mother Superior was from Iceland, so she told us stories about them there. I can't remember them too well... otherwise, we just learned about faery circles and the tricks those play and little tips like that. But there wasn't much else except for what we read in books like this." Sighing one last time at the volume's front, she handed the book back to James, who stowed it out of sight.

"But no one minds if you look at things like this." He opened a gigantic book, pulling out a folded center page. It detailed an enormous geographical map of the city, the coast around it, and the countryside just outside the walls.

"Wow." Deirdre stared at the city's layout; it was so intricate and counterintuitive to the maps of the forest and small towns she grew up with.

"I know, right? And look." He pointed out scratchy writing in dark blue ink, clearly added by him. "Up here in these woods, some people say there are bird faeries. But we can't go out and find 'em; there are patrols around the city all the time."

"I didn't see any patrols."

"Well, they don't patrol much around the front gate, but that's always guarded, so there's no need. Anyway, I managed to figure out where the patrol routes are every day. They change by day of the week, so it took a while..."

James then launched into a long explanation of the patrols and their exact schedules and routes. Although she tried to follow along, it was a lot of information, and eventually Deirdre listened without really processing what he was saying. She kept her gaze fixed on his hand as he pointed down at the map and traced the various patrol routes. Though she tried to remember which route was associated with which day and which hour, she soon realized it was hopeless.

Maybe I should have brought a notebook myself...

"And that's about it, though things change some on state holidays, like tomorrow," James was saying.

"Hmmm... what? What's tomorrow?" she asked, looking up at him.

"The memorial of the Bombing."

"Oh, right."

"So tomorrow it'd be easier to get out without being noticed. Patrols will be lighter around here"—he pointed to a small northern exit—"because everyone will be focused on the parade, on this street." He traced his finger down a long central road a few blocks away from the exit in question.

"I see," Deirdre said in the dazed tone of someone who really does not understand.

James went on energetically, "So if you were to leave by this gate just before the parade comes down the street, I don't think anyone will notice and ask why you're leaving."

"That makes sense." She looked at him and gestured at the map. "Why are you doing all this for me?"

James hesitated before answering, and she desperately thought, Please don't say "because we're on a date" or something like that...

"I'm... Well, I want to go too."

She was relieved and puzzled at the same time, and for a moment she sat there gaping at him. "But— What? You? Why?"

"I've always wanted to... you know, go out of the city and see faery country."

"And your family is all right with that?"

"They won't even notice I'm gone," James said dismissively, though he didn't meet her eye.

She sat farther back in her chair, thinking out loud, "I guess you could... I mean, honestly, I wasn't completely sure I would go."

"You don't want to?"

"Well, I mean, if I went, I'd miss classes! That's kind of against the rules, isn't it?"

"But your family... and there's so much out there! Look, no one talks about it, but once you step into faery forests, there's magic everywhere. And it's real, like the fortune the other day. And here, I'll show you..." He pulled out one of his notebooks and flipped to a page, double-checking its contents before laying it down on the table for her to see.

It was packed with notes and small sketches, apparently organizing everything James knew about faery magic. Deirdre read and listened to James excitedly pointing out what he liked best at the same time.

Faery magic, it said, could make flowers bloom in winter. It could hold back or bring forth the tide before its time. It could dry or refill ancient wells. It could forge lighting and hail out of their time and season. It could even make the sun come out on a cloudy day. All this did not necessarily contradict the little Deirdre had learned about faeries, but it still sounded like something out of myth.

"Just imagine being in their land, seeing all this!" James was now ecstatic, beginning to gesture so emphatically with his arms that he whacked his elbow on the table with a loud bang.

As he nursed his injury, muttering a couple of angry, foreign words, Deirdre leaned over the notebook. The way James went on about faeries and their lands, going toward their Court sounded like it could only be full of delight. But one of the notes about magic noted that it could decay and destroy things, from plants to metal.

The hubcaps turning to dust resurfaced in her mind. Was that magic...? From what this says, magic could definitely do that. So maybe the twig and the teacup and the tires... Was that all magic? But how? How? Was it the fortune? Did that banshee really put a curse on me? If that's so... maybe the Court could cure it. Maybe...

"James, faeries can curse people, right?" Deirdre asked, her voice unusually high-pitched.

He stopped rubbing his elbow. "Yeah, but they don't. I mean, they don't do it that often. That's a misconception people have, but I found out that—"

"Can they curse someone so they, somehow, use magic?"

James blinked. "I don't think so... I mean, that would be really cool if they could! You or I could use magic that way. But, um"—he shuffled through his notes for a moment—"no, they can't give their magic away like that. Maybe sometimes they can give magical objects, like in faery tales, but that's it."

"Oh." She sighed, leaning forward and cupping her head in her hands.

But if it isn't a curse, then what is it? Could it be something to do with my family? Maybe the Court could tell me... But this didn't happen until I came to the city. Maybe if I leave, everything will be fine again. But if I leave, I'll miss classes! And if I stay...

The cup breaking this morning flashed into her memory, and she shivered. If I stay, this... problem might hurt people here. I might even hurt the other students! I don't want anything like that to happen. I can't just do nothing... I've got to find a way to fix this. Maybe I won't have to go all the way to the Court to do that. Maybe I could find an answer some other way and come back before missing too much school...

Her eyes widened and she shot upright in her seat, excitedly gasping before turning to James and asking, "How about we go to Trinity?"

"What? Why?"

"Mother Superior always knew a lot about faeries and magic. I think she knew way more than she ever told us. So I want to ask her about magic and all that. And"—she hesitated before continuing—"maybe there's some things about my parents she never told me. Hints or clues... things like that."

James fiddled with his pen for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. It's a bit funny to be leaving school only to head to another one..."

She gasped. "I didn't even realize—what about your schooling? I mean, I might miss one or two days, but these classes are repeats for me, and I can catch up again easily. But won't you miss out on a lot?"

"Oh... well, I can always make up later," James said. "Besides... if you don't go now, you might miss being able to find your parents. Right?"

Deirdre blew out a long breath, slouching in her chair. "I guess. I don't know. I always thought they must be dead. I never thought about going to search because I hated the idea of searching for people who couldn't be found. It's..." She noticed James looking at her, and she smiled. "It's just a pretty scary thought. But never mind— Have you ever been out of the city before, on your own?"

"Um... no."

"Oh. Have you been camping before?"

He shifted in his seat. "Well, I've read a lot about camping and traveling and things like that. Like this book here." He pulled out a thin paperback from his pile. "I think it will be helpful..."

As she listened to him show off the different features of what was basically a camping for morons book, she realized he had no idea what he was talking about. The thought of him out there alone, only knowing how to make a fire with matches (which could get wet) or a hand drill (Deirdre had done this a couple of times and hated it), was suddenly much more urgent than any long-term goal of finding long-lost parents.

Even if I find out what I need to back at the orphanage to make sure this whole magic thing won't keep happening, maybe I should keep traveling with him... or at least convince him to stop and go home. He'll be completely at a loss out in the country alone.

She interrupted his spiel about using moss to tell which way was north, asking, "Did your family ever forbid you from leaving the city? Will you be breaking a rule?"

"Uh..." Clearly taken aback, he pondered the question for a second before replying, "Now that you mention it... I mean, no one ever actually said that."

"Good. In that case, let's do this. Let's go tomorrow!"

For the first time, James beamed without reserve or shyness. "All right!" Dragging out the map of the city again, he pointed at the street they were to meet on. "So the parade will be starting at noon tomorrow, at the beginning of the street to the east. We'll meet here, on the north side, at quarter past twelve, so we'll leave just before the parade reaches us. Everyone will be so focused on it, even the few guards, that we'll slip out easily."

"Wow." She smiled at him. "You're really smart, aren't you?"

His only response was to blush lightly and stutter and mumble.

When no clear words were forthcoming, she asked, "What are you packing?"

Immediately James launched into his list of things he had planned to bring. She forced the smile to stay on her face even though she was sharply reminded of the times she helped groups of thirteen-year-old girls at the orphanage prepare to go camping overnight. Thirteen was the age when they began to pack many useless items, but James honestly topped them all. Deirdre spent the rest of their time at the café trying to convince him to pack fewer books and notebooks and more changes of clothes and practical equipment. When James had to go home in the late afternoon, she felt only partially successful. As she waved goodbye to him, she prayed he didn't show up tomorrow with a wheelbarrow full of heavy tomes.

For a while she wandered around the block, thinking of the supplies in her suitcase. She was covered when it came to clothes, but many essentials for surviving in the wild were missing. And so, after bugging a few random people for information and directions, she headed toward the enormous outdoor market that was open on fair-weather weekends.

The market was in the heart of the city, near a small park. First she headed to the park's borders, relieved to see some green again. She spotted a few people walking their dogs and realized this was the first time she had seen any animals since coming to the city. After watching them for a while (and wishing for the hundredth time that she had a dog of her own), she headed toward the markets.

They had nothing of the verve and color of Ferriers Town, but the large maze of stalls and booths were packed with people and just about anything she could ever think of buying. To keep herself from impulse purchases (a lasting flaw of hers), she used a strategy Sister Teresa had taught her. First she walked through the entire market briskly, taking account of the stalls, their wares, and their prices, and then she returned only to the ones with the best deals.

She purchased an absolutely hideous neon-purple-and-snot-green rain-proof backpack (discounted because no one else would buy it), rope for climbing (discounted because no one really needed it), a small torch (discounted because it only had a green light), first aid equipment, and some dried food (even though James said he would get their food, she didn't entirely trust him to bring enough).

Her last purchase was flint and steel. In the same booth, she spotted several pocketknives. But when she leaned over to touch one, she flinched back; the handles all seemed to be inlaid with iron.

"See something you like?" the stall owner asked. He was a tall, wide man with a thick white mustache despite his bald head. He reminded her of a walrus.

"Everything here is really nice," she said with a smile, pointing at the knives but not touching them. "Do you have any knives without iron?"

He didn't smile, but his eyes grew lighter. "Ahh, got a faery boyfriend, do you?"

Mouth falling open, she whispered, "Girls have those in the city?"

"Some of 'em do." He picked up one of the knives farthest from her and handed it carefully to her. "This one's got pewter instead of iron. Normally it'd cost more, but iron knives are in such demand, this is the cheaper option."

She held the handle in her palm, unfolding the knife. The steel blade was bright and sharp, and the handle fit perfectly in her grasp.

"I'll take it."

As she headed toward the market's exit, her purchases stowed in her backpack, she fought the urge to skip. She had gotten everything she needed, and she still had a couple of coins left over. They weren't really worth much at all, but the jingling noise they made as she walked buoyed her spirits even higher.

As she went to slide past someone, the figure turned abruptly, knocking her off her feet.

Immediately she bounced back up. "Watch where you're going!" she snapped, dusting her skirt off.

The man had stopped and turned, his expression apologetic. "Excuse me, young lady. I didn't notice you. Shopping for school, are you?" His unsmiling eyes lingered on her backpack.

"I'm all done," she replied shortly, her upbringing discouraging any direct lies. She cocked her head; the man was wearing a military uniform, though it was different from anything she'd seen in the city so far. Plus he looked remarkably familiar, though she couldn't quite place him. "Have we met before?"

"You may know some of my family, perhaps. It's a small city." He frowned at her change purse, shaking his head. "Such a small purse... and schools demand so much from students these days, even from poor orphans. Let me buy something for you, as an apology for knocking you down."

"Well, I—" His words clicked and she stepped back. "How did you know I'm an orphan?"

"Your outfit, of course," he replied with a thin smile.

She glanced down; the vested blouse and long belted skirt was a standard uniform for Trinity, but how many people in the city would know that? Elaine sure hadn't yesterday. She looked back up, unsettled.

"Don't worry about it." She began to walk away from him. "I've got to go."

The moment she turned her head, he called after her, "Young lady, you dropped something."

"Huh?" She looked back; he was pointing to a small, dark grey ring on the ground.

"I don't have any jewelry," she said, though she crouched down to grab it, thinking it must have fallen from one of the nearby booths.

When her fingers brushed the ring, it felt like a snake bit them. She flinched away. Feeling the man's eyes on her, she tried again; she managed to grab it, but it felt like warm pins were digging into her fingers. Just as the pins began to get white-hot, she tossed the ring onto the outer table of the nearest booth.

The man did not say anything but simply watched her as she stood back up and walked away, nursing her fingers. She glanced back only once; the man was still there, his gaze fixed on her like a terrier that had spotted a rat and was about to pounce. Feeling chilled, she hurried away toward the exit of the market.

"Are you Deirdre?"

A small group of soldiers approached her. The one leading them was tall and spoke with an Irish accent as he repeated, "You are Deirdre, right? You'll have to come with me."

After blinking a few times, she asked, "Why?"

"Suspicious activity. Staying out past curfew. Possible conspiring with rebel faeries," the soldier said like he was reading off a list in his head.

"I..." She shook her head. "I don't understand. Maybe I was out a little late yesterday, but I was with a soldier. I... I didn't do any of those other things."

The soldier sighed, gesturing forward. "Look, this might just be a misunderstanding. Come with me and we'll clear it up as fast as we can." He even broke a small grin. "You might be out and back in your dorm in less than an hour."

She agreed reluctantly, though as she began to follow him, she asked, "I still don't understand. Is this because I went to the faery town yesterday? Or is this because—"

"Stay quiet until we ask a question," the soldier said, his voice suddenly sharp.

She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came out; when she slackened her pace, one of the other soldiers pushed her onward.

If this is just a misunderstanding, why are there five soldiers here? She considered running away but pushed the idea from her mind; before now, she had never had a reason to mistrust an authority figure. So despite the nauseating anxiety rising inside, she stayed optimistic.

But when they reached the headquarters of the Iron Wardens and one of the soldiers closed the iron gate behind them as they stepped inside, her weak knees were the only thing stopping her from bolting.

This might not end well...

Chapter Eleven

As James made his way back home after leaving Deirdre at the café, he was still buzzing with excitement from all their planning; well, it was his planning, really. Come to think of it, James realized that Deirdre hadn't said very much. (Why was that?) However, he was certain she was just as eager as he was to discover and explore the world beyond Neo-London. He wondered what sights they might see, what creatures they might encounter that he'd only seen in illustrations or imagined vividly in his mind.

It'll be even better with someone to experience it all with!

James had just started to get used to the idea of traveling on his own. He figured there were many scholars and field researchers who studied wildlife on their own and that he might have a go and see what that would be like before he pursued it as a profession. He'd managed to convince himself that spending his days quietly documenting his surroundings and his nights quietly surveying the stars, with only nature as his company, would be fulfilling enough to keep him occupied. Now that Deirdre was on board, he threw those fantastical notions to the wayside, assuring himself that there would be plenty of time for a solo adventure later in life.

While he knew that having Deirdre as a companion would not be anything like having his brother with him, like he'd always envisioned, he knew it would be infinitely more fun than being alone. She won't be nearly as annoying as Iain, at any rate, James thought, sounding more cheerful about it in his head than he felt.

As he neared his building over the road, he saw that there was a unit of Iron Wardens with their backs to him who were walking up his street toward the abandoned lot a little ways beyond.

That's unusual. They don't normally patrol around here unless there's been a report.

Certain that the Iron Wardens would not stop him or even notice him, but aware of the books he carried with him, James picked up his pace. He headed to the crosswalk past the small park across from the housing. Right as he was walking past, he saw an elderly looking man emerging out of the park.

As James drew closer, he noticed that while the man had neatly kept dark hair and a trimmed beard, his clothing looked a little worn, and he supported his weight with a walking stick, which had made James mistake him as older than he was. Something about the way he looked stirred familiarity, though James did not recognize him from the neighborhood.

Wait. He can't be—

"Jal?" The man turned to look at him, his face lighting up in a huge, bright grin.

James gawked. "Káko Marko?"

Marko chuckled and spread one arm wide as if to embrace him. "My goodness, it has been a while since I've seen you, boy. You're looking fit as a fiddle!"

James's face flushed. "Um, thank you," he mumbled.

The few times Mum had introduced Marko to Iain and James when they were children, when Marko used to work at the hospital with her, she always had them call him Káko Marko—Uncle Marko—even though they had no blood relation, though Mum and Marko were practically raised together in the same community growing up. Now he just felt silly calling a practical stranger "uncle" without being prompted.

The last time James had seen Marko, the visit had not been a pleasant one. He'd been there the night Iain was sick on Pan. James had called him, not knowing what else to do. His mother left them with a number to contact Marko before she left if they needed anything, but they'd never thought to call upon some man they hardly knew. After the incident three years ago, however, the number had been disconnected when James tried to call again.

"What happened to you?" James asked tactfully, noticing the way Marko favored one leg. He hadn't needed a walking stick before. Realizing he was being impolite by not addressing him properly, James quickly said, "I just meant that you look, uh, different."

Marko just kept smiling. "Times have been hard, that's all."

"Do you, um, need anything? I mean you're in the area for a reason, aren't you?"

"Actually"—Marko cleared his throat—"I was hoping to visit with you and Brishen."

James blinked. He was unused to hearing his brother's Romani name spoken. Hearing it now felt like a bad omen, like invoking the name of someone long dead.

At James's silence, Marko clarified, "I just wanted to see how you are doing. Last time I saw you both—"

"Iain doesn't remember it," James said quickly. "You, um, helping." It was not something that either of the brothers really wanted to talk about after, so James hadn't elaborated when Iain had expressed that he didn't remember a thing from when he was ill.

"Ah. I expected as much. Most users have some memory loss. I suppose we can be grateful for that, Jal."

James supposed he was grateful. Iain had been completely out of it. Marko had said his body was shutting down, like he'd overdosed. James was certain Marko hadn't forgotten being shouted at so viciously by someone he was trying to save. He would have died if Marko hadn't been there to stop him from choking on his own vomit while unconscious.

James was still stunned by how their father reacted. James was eleven at the time and considered himself far too old to cry, but he had been nearly inconsolable. Marko had patted him on the shoulder, graciously ignored his tears, made him a cup of tea, and told him that everything would be fine. Their father, in contrast, was cold.

Alan argued with Marko, ordering him to leave their home at once. James had been afraid that their father might be angry enough to hurt Iain. But he hadn't seemed upset. He was indifferent, calm.

Marko had protested that he needed to stay to make sure Iain would be okay, adding that he wanted to come back every few days to make sure Iain was recovering, ensuring he got the help he needed.

When Alan threatened to call the Iron Wardens on Marko if he didn't leave, Marko had shouted at him, "I just saved your son's life!"

"You shouldn't have bothered. There's no place in the world for people like him." That's what their father had said right outside their room for Iain to hear.

James remembered it ringing in his ears, stinging worse than a slap ever could. He had decided to never forgive his father for saying that, even though things between them had improved somewhat since then.

I wish I didn't remember it either. He pulled his jacket tighter around him, suddenly cold.

Looking back at Marko, he asked, "Where have you been all this time?" He did not want to admit that he'd tried to call Marko's number after he'd seen him last, but he wanted to know why he hadn't answered.

"I've been around, in and out of the city." Marko shrugged.

Sounds neat, James thought glumly. He reminded himself that soon he would be able to see different places as well.

"You two are doing all right, huh?" Marko asked. "I hear Iain's joined the Iron Guard, and you've been doing well in school. That's pretty good to hear."

James nodded absently.

Marko reached out and placed his hand on James's shoulder, jolting him slightly. He leaned in and offered a warm smile, asking, "Is your brother home? What about your father?"

James rubbed at his nose absently. "Iain should be awake by now. Dad's at work."

"Good. There's something I'd like to discuss with you and your brother. Something important." Marko picked up the plastic bag by his feet. "Shall we?"

James led Marko over the road and to the gated entrance to the building.

The guard peered around and squinted at them from his booth. "Have a guest?" he asked gruffly, giving Marko a wary glance. It was the same kind of look that he saw the guards give the homeless when they passed by.

Marko merely waved in response.

"He's, um, my uncle," James said uncertainly. "He only looks like an old hobo."

He hadn't meant to sound impolite. He'd meant to clarify the situation. But now that he thought about it, maybe the words had come out wrong. He could almost feel the smack Iain would've given him if he'd heard, as if he'd been classically conditioned.

Luckily, Marko did not seem offended.

"Have I seen you around here before?" the guard asked, leaning toward him.

Marko shrugged. "Not likely. I haven't visited this part of the city in a few years."

Wordlessly, the guard opened the gate.

When James led Marko inside the house, they were greeted with the thrumming sound of music on the radio and the smell of garlic and tomato that hit them like a wave. The house was warm from the stove being on a while.

James slipped off his shoes in the entryway. Marko did the same, hiding a smile.

"Iain?" James banged his fist on the wall of the hallway frantically, trying to be heard over the noise. "We have company!"

"Yeah?" Iain bellowed back. James could hear him set down a pan on the stove and stride toward the hallway. "It wouldn't happen to be your girlfriend, would it? Because I would hate to embarrass you—"

Iain slid around the corner, dressed in his civilian clothing: plain brown trousers and a T-shirt. He was also wearing house slippers, and his wild hair was pushed from his face with the bandana he wore while cooking.

Iain looked from James to Marko, breaking off abruptly, his cheeky grin fading. He pulled the bandana from his head, letting his hair fall. "James," he said, "who is this? Is everything all right?"

Marko thrust his hand toward Iain to shake. "It's been a while, Brishen. I'm your Uncle Marko."

Iain stared for a moment before narrowing his eyes. "You used to work at the hospital, didn't you?" He folded his arms. "I think I remember you now."

Marko lowered his hand slowly.

James could tell Iain was not pleased (it might have been the pointed glare that gave it away), but he did not care. "Marko was in the neighborhood and wanted to catch up."

"I have something for you." Marko held up the plastic bag for emphasis. "But first"—his eyes gleamed—"what is that delicious smell?"

* * *

Iain watched carefully as Marko scarfed down a bowl of the stew he'd prepared for him and wondered why he had decided to show up now after years of absence and what he wanted from them. He looked to James occasionally, who seemed too anxious to eat and instead was staring at Marko like he was the most interesting person he'd ever encountered.

He knew very little about Marko. Marko and Mum had grown up together in Neo-London, though they'd apparently had a falling out a few years before Mum left. He'd seemed nice enough from what Iain remembered as a kid, but the name also stirred caution. He remembered with sharper clarity what his father had said. When Iain had asked his father about the Rom who was a nurse and why they hadn't seen him in a while, he had replied that Marko was a dangerous man, that Marko was obsessed with their mother.

Had James not been there, Iain would have asked him to leave instantly. But he wanted to spare James from hearing what their father had told him if he could. Perhaps Marko would leave without needing to be told.

Marko scraped his bowl clean with the chunk of bread Iain had given him. "Good hospitality is difficult to come by these days," Marko said matter-of-factly. He gestured to Iain. "And you are quite the chef."

"Thank you," Iain said stiffly.

Marko smiled. "Kallista was always telling me you had skill for it. She was right."

The air seemed to grow static and thick at the mention of their mother's name, as if the house atmosphere was unused to it being uttered. Iain glanced at the floor.

Marko scooted his chair back and retrieved the bag from the floor at his feet. "I'm not just here to catch up or eat," he said seriously. "I've come to give you these."

Marko produced a small stack of letters from the bag and handed them out to Iain. "These letters are from your mother, sent to me over the past few years. There isn't much in them besides our conversations, but I hope they'll give you answers."

The letters were worn and weathered by rain, the parchment thick and old. Iain took them in his hands hesitantly, his knuckles blanching as he gripped them.

Mum. They're from Mum.

Iain recoiled from his thoughts, startled by how much he wanted them to be true. Maybe he was no less naive than an orphan girl who placed her hope in a faery fortune. He knew he'd been harsh to judge her when he was still just as desperate for answers as she had been.

Maybe I was crueler to dash her hopes than the banshee was for raising them...

Iain forced himself to think everything through even though all he wanted to do was believe what Marko was saying. There was so much that did not add up, like why Mum would write to a man who had stalked her and why Marko hadn't come forward with the letters before now.

"Why are you telling us this now?" Iain asked.

Marko sighed. "Kallista made me promise to never tell you. I don't know why. I think she may have wanted to protect you. I'm telling you now because you deserve to know why she left."

"You know why she left." James was breathless.

"She did not leave us lightly. Leaving was the hardest thing she's ever done, but she did it to protect you, Jal." Marko folded his arms across his chest. "And before you ask, I have no idea where she is. She never told me, no matter how many times I pestered her. And I haven't heard from her in over a year, which makes me worry she's in danger."

James shot up from his chair, his face pinched in concentration. He was focused, his fingers twitching for a notebook or something to help sort out his thoughts. "I told you she wasn't unhappy," he said to Iain. "I knew she wouldn't have left us for some reason like that."

Iain looked back at him, then he shot Marko a pleading look. Please don't make me tell James what you did, what Dad told me. Convince me you're not lying.

"Let's read them." James walked around the table, reaching to take the letters from Iain.

Marko glanced between them. "You read them, but you make sure your father doesn't."

"Why?" Iain asked, his expression hardening again.

"I— It's very unclear—"

"Yeah, a lot of this is unclear, like why you haven't gone to any authorities if she's really in danger." Iain tossed the letters down on the table in front of Marko. He leaned down toward Marko, meeting his gaze intently. "What danger?"

James was watching him closely.

"Dark magic," Marko sputtered out, seemingly just as perturbed by his own words as they were. "It's dark magic."

Iain closed his eyes briefly. He'd heard enough.

James was yammering on loudly, but Iain could not focus on anything he was saying.

"Right," he interjected. "So you've heard some of the more wild rumors about why she left, and you thought you'd try to get something out of it then?" He straightened back up. "I remember you. I remember what my father's said about you. And if you're trying to hurt him, going through me or my brother won't get you much."

"Oh, Brishen." Marko shook his head almost sadly, his disappointment palpable. "I had no idea how lost you've become."

Iain pointed toward the hallway, turning to look at James sternly. "James, go upstairs."

"What? No!" James scoffed. "I'm staying right here."

"James—"

"You just want me to leave so you can beat him!" James shouted dramatically, jabbing a finger at him accusatorily. "That's what Iron Wardens do!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Iain retorted just as loudly. "I'm not going to beat anyone. But I might give you a right good smack if you don't—"

The sound of the front door unlocking silenced them all momentarily.

Iain lost track of where the letters went. He saw Marko stuffing something in the bag he'd brought, and he saw James dart past the table in a blur and race out of the kitchen.

"Uh, okay!" James answered Iain again as he left. "I'll go upstairs!"

Iain was too preoccupied to wonder why his brother was listening to him for the first time in his life. He turned to Marko, who was struggling to stand. Iain offered him an arm for balance, which he accepted.

"If you hurry, you can leave out the back gate," Iain said, wanting to avoid a confrontation. "But I don't want to see you around here again. Do you understand?"

"I think I understand," Marko said thinly. "It's been made clear to me there's no getting through to you now. Your father's made sure of that."

Before they could reach the door to the back garden, Dad walked inside. Iain tried to think of an explanation that wouldn't implicate James for bringing Marko into their home. He hadn't known any better, and maybe that was Iain's fault for trying to protect him.

Dad strode down the hall to the kitchen, not looking up from the file he was holding.

"You're home early," Iain pointed out.

Dad smiled faintly to himself.

Well, at least he's in a good mood for the moment.

"Yes," Dad said, looking up, "I had some personal business to attend to today, so I took off work—"

He broke off abruptly, his expression unreadable as his gaze flitted from Marko and rested on Iain.

"Marko came by. He just wanted to have a chat." Iain's throat was dry. "But he's leaving now."

"I see," Dad said. "Well, I suppose there's no harm in that. It has been a while, seeing as how he was just released from prison last week. So I imagine you had a lot to chat about."

Iain's stomach lurched. Nice one, James. Brilliant.

Marko stared back evenly, seemingly unfazed.

"Why don't you show him the door, Iain?" Dad asked, gesturing back down the hallway. "Then maybe we can eat dinner together."

Iain nodded, grabbing Marko's arm to support him and to get him moving.

"I see the Iron Guard has had an influence on you." Marko wrenched himself free once they were at the door, rubbing at his arm absently.

Maybe I was a bit rough...

"I've had a few run-ins with the Iron Wardens before." Marko patted his bad leg gingerly. "I've got the reminder of that right here."

"Things aren't like that anymore," Iain said, more defensively than he'd meant to.

"Aren't they?" Marko's smile was wry. "I guess not, now that there are so few of us Roma left to chase away. Now they only have the faeries to harass and turn us against."

Marko sighed, adding, "I was thrilled when I learned you'd joined... I had hoped you'd change things eventually."

"I—" Iain broke off, not wanting to get into a debate while he was standing in the hallway wearing slippers. "Just go."

"You're making a mistake," Marko said, holding his bag to his chest.

Iain opened the door wide. "That may be the case, but that's on me."

Marko walked out, heading toward the gate; just before he exited, he turned back, calling out, "I wonder what happened to Kallista's boy, Brishen. He would've been brave enough to read a few letters. And he would've been brave enough to see the truth of what was going on around him!"

Iain shut the door.

"Did that go all right?" Dad asked him once Iain returned. He was sitting at the kitchen table in front of Marko's empty bowl.

Iain didn't hear him, his mind racing. Why would he lie? Why would he make up some story and fake letters to trick a kid like James? He knew it wasn't beyond most people to lie, but he could not think of a reason beyond some sick, twisted satisfaction that Marko could gain that Iain couldn't understand.

"Listen"—Iain looked at his father—"about Marko—"

"You don't need to explain yourself, Iain. I trust that you remember what I told you and that you know when you're being fooled." Dad exhaled softly.

Iain hesitated. "He said some things. About—about Mum."

"What things?" Dad asked firmly.

Just say it. Just keep it together.

Iain found that the words came slowly and with difficulty. Talking about her never got any easier. He wasn't used to his father mentioning her anymore. "Not a lot of it made sense," he admitted, "but he said she wrote to him."

Dad said nothing for a long moment. Iain wondered if he was even listening until he said, "If you remember what I told you about Marko, you know that would never happen."

"That's what I thought, but—"

"Iain," Dad said sharply, "you know very well that I've questioned Marko before and that I learned nothing."

Iain nodded numbly.

"Let's just both agree to forget all about it. The Cataclysm Memorial is tomorrow, and I would rather we focus on more important things."

"All right." Iain was grateful for that. "I'm going to check on James."

Dad's mouth twitched at a smile. "As expected."

* * *

James flopped down on his bed and pulled the letters out from under his shirt where he'd stashed them. He studied the envelope of one of them, searching for anything that might identify where it came from. There was nothing written on the outside, no return address, no name.

That's a little weird.

A chill rolled down his spine when he thought about what Marko had said, the vague, but ominous words: dark magic. It was if he'd invoked something just by speaking it, as wary of the subject as some Roma were. Magic was considered by most to be marhime, spiritually impure. To the rest, magic was a silly thing and not to be bothered with. He remembered stories his mum used to tell about her encounters with faeries and their magic, which is what had ignited his interest in the first place. However, she always stayed clear of the darker sides of the folktales and the magic that surrounded them, being devout in her Christian faith.

None of that had ever stopped James from digging deeper in his research, but he didn't know much about what Marko could have been talking about. Tomes on magic were a rare find. He hated not knowing something.

When he heard the creaking of the steps as Iain climbed upstairs, he quickly stuffed the letters under his pillow and threw himself down over it.

Iain opened the door, stepping inside wordlessly.

"You shouldn't have treated him like that," James said. He stared up at the ceiling, at the dark water stains that had been spreading for a while.

"And you shouldn't let strangers into our home. You're much smarter than that."

James rolled over, his back to Iain. "He's not a stranger."

I should tell him. I should just tell him what Marko did for him. If he'd even believe me... No, he'd never contradict anything Dad said, would he?

"Listen," Iain said. "I know you remember him from when we were kids, but he's different now. He just got out of jail, James. He's not the kind of person you want to trust."

"You would know all about people like that, wouldn't you?" James murmured darkly.

Iain sighed. "Yeah. I guess I would."

"So what if you can't trust Marko?" James asked, raising his voice. "You can trust me, can't you?"

"Of course I trust you."

"Well, I think Marko was telling the truth."

"It doesn't work like that."

"I guess we won't know now, will we?" James sat up on the bed, turning to face Iain. "Did you help Dad chase him out this time?"

Iain threw his hands in the air. "What are you talking about?"

James just rolled his eyes. "Just forget it."

"That's not how we deal with things."

"That's exactly how we deal with things, Iain. Or haven't you lived here?"

Iain snatched a pillow from his bed and chucked it at James as hard as he could, smacking him in the face. At least it felt to James like he'd thrown it as hard as he could.

James swiped the pillow away angrily, which only made Iain laugh.

"Sometimes I think you don't even want to find Mum," James said, his voice trembling as badly as his clenched fists. "Maybe it's good she's not here to see how much of a jerk you've become." He knew instantly that he'd crossed a line, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Iain just stood there for a long moment.

Before James could even react, Iain had thundered across the room in a few long strides. James sometimes forgot how his brother must appear to civilians: towering and hostile (even while he was in his slippers), his eyes dark and inscrutable.

"Get downstairs and clean up after supper. Now." Iain grabbed him by his shoulder, hoisting him upright like he weighed little more than a mouse, and then gave him a hard shove toward the door.

"Ow!" James yelped, more out of alarm than pain. He stumbled over the mound of clothing he'd left piled on the floor, then ducked around to glare at Iain.

When he opened his mouth to retort, Iain hissed. "Shut it."

James felt his throat tighten, but he ignored it. He rubbed at his stinging shoulder furiously, thinking about refusing to listen but retreated downstairs regardless. He thought about instead what and when he would pack tomorrow, what books to take, and how glad he was that he was finally leaving.

Chapter Twelve

The house was always quieter than usual on the anniversary of the bombing. They never had anyone over on the anniversary—not even the Fancy Prancers. Iain had taught James at a young age to give their father space on the day of the memorial, though James was never sure why. He never noticed a difference in his father's behavior on that day. To James, he maintained his usual reserved, stern nature. But Iain always claimed Dad to be particularly severe on the date, and so James did not question him.

After his discussion with Deirdre at the café the day before, James had been so excited about their departure that he thought he would barely be able to sleep that night, like he remembered staying up the night before one of the few field trips he attended. However, after his conversation with Marko and his confrontation with Iain, he instead found himself kept up by restless thoughts instead of anticipation, staring blankly at the ceiling in the dark, going over and over what Marko had said to him and what he had said to his brother. When he had slept, his dreams had been sporadic and confusing, filled with odd, unexplainable creatures and magic and sights. But when he woke in the morning, he did not feel doubt or guilt about leaving.

James climbed out of bed early. Iain was still sprawled out on the tiny twin bed, half his limbs hanging off the side. James dressed quickly into well-worn grey jeans, a grey sweater, and holey hiking boots he'd found at a thrift store. He left his mother's scarf on the dresser after a moment of hesitation. He was going for a nondescript look so as not to draw attention.

While he was not normally very attentive or careful with his belongings, he had slowed down last night and painstakingly arranged the letters he'd swiped from Marko in his pack so that they remained in order and wouldn't crumple under the weight of the tomes he planned to bring. He tucked the letters between the pages of a sturdy book.

I can read them once I'm clear of the city, James assured himself. I've waited this long. I can wait a few more hours, can't I?

Just as he nearly filled his pack with books, he noticed he had forgot to pack clothing. He thought about Deirdre's suggestions, and his face reddened when he realized she had been right.

Maybe I shouldn't bring so many books...

He'd read a book about a wilderness traveler who never took supplies with him and lived off the land instead. James had thought that sounded like fun, save for the unpleasantness of alternative water sources.

It took him so long to decide which books to leave behind (the one on various types of birds and the one on famous natural landmarks) that he was certain he would get caught by his father when it came time for him to go to the kitchen to pack rations. But when he did make his way to the kitchen and began shoving chocolate biscuits into his bag, the door to his father's room was still closed, the room silent and absent the telltale sound of music coming from the radio.

When he heard creaking on the steps above, James hurriedly ducked behind one of the walls in the hallway to avoid being seen. Iain traipsed down the steps, jumping the last two as he had always done since he was a child, and walked to the kitchen.

James crouched in the hallway, hidden in a pocket of shadow in the small alcove he was hiding in, and waited. His backpack was starting to tug on his shoulders and make them ache, and when he shifted to a slightly more comfortable position, he nearly toppled over from the weight of it. He began to sweat when he heard the door to his father's room open, wondering what would happen if he was found out.

It doesn't matter anyway. No one can stop me from leaving.

James strained his ears as Iain and Dad began to talk.

"Where's your brother?" Dad asked.

"He must be out in the back garden. I didn't see him upstairs."

"Are you working security today?"

"Yes, Father."

"I want things to run smoothly at the parade."

"I'll do my best."

There was a long pause, and James wondered when his legs would give out.

"It's an honor to serve on a day like this," Dad said in a low voice. "You should be proud to do it. I know I feel better knowing that you'll be there to help. It means a lot to me that you're a part of this."

Iain said nothing. James wished he would speak up but understood why he didn't. James himself was so shocked by the statement that he wouldn't know what to say in his brother's place.

"Do you see that flag over there, folded on the mantle? That was my father's. He served in the British army. We were given that flag when he passed away. He was working the day the bomb hit the city, and he was killed instantly by the impact."

"I... didn't know that."

"Well, I have not been very forthcoming," Dad replied slowly.

When Iain did not reply, or he spoke so quietly that James could not hear him, Dad continued, "We never got to bury his body. There was nothing left. My mother and I had to evacuate the city a few days later. I was out on a school trip when it happened. My siblings were not so fortunate. One of them was crushed by rubble. The other died in a hospital a day later. I was one of the lucky ones. When I was outside, I didn't see the actual blast. Many of the students who did were blinded instantly. Everything caught fire around us. Everyone was... screaming."

James slumped against the wall, his entire body feeling as if it were made of lead. It wasn't the same, reading about the Cataclysm in books. Hearing it made it real.

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I don't mind talking about it. It feels good to talk about what happened, especially today." Dad sighed. "We evacuated, but my mother had to stay in the hospital while I was forced into someone's home to live with strangers. She had a high dose of radiation, you see. Her hair began to fall out. She died a few months later of radiation poisoning. Then I had to make it on my own."

After a moment, Dad said, "It was the Fae that organized the attack. They infiltrated our government, our technology with their magic, and they hit us hard for no reason, without provocation, without remorse. They took the form of our prime minister. They destroyed our government, our way of life, our peace of mind. And not one of their worthless lot have ever paid for their crimes."

Dad paused. "Did you know that the Fae sent another bomb up north, toward the Summer Court?"

"I've heard of something like that happening, but I don't know much about it," Iain admitted. "Why would they attack their own? Do they not have any sense of loyalty?"

"I knew you'd understand. You know about loyalty." James heard Dad gathering teacups from the cabinet and starting to make tea. "The Summer Court and the Winter Court have been at war for ages. The faery responsible wanted to put an end to the Summer Court, so he sent a bomb there too. Only, the bomb never impacted. It's still there, suspended and kept from bursting through magic."

"The barrier around the Summer Court."

"That's right." The gas stove clicked on as Dad prepared to heat the kettle. "I want you to understand what you'll be up against. The Fae in this city have been taking advantage of our system. It's only a matter of time before what happened before happens again. Already the Fae in the Summer Court plan against us behind their barrier. You'll have to be always on your guard, Iain, for you and your brother. You cannot trust any of them. Do you understand?"

"I understand." He sounded uncertain.

"That's good, Iain. I'll need you on my side."

"Thanks for, you know, telling me all this." Iain cleared his throat. "Why are you telling me this? I get why, yeah? It's just, why are you telling me?"

"It should be obvious to you that I trust you above all others. You're the only one who would understand. Do you think I'd be telling this to Boyd or Philip?" Dad chuckled mirthlessly. "Or James?"

James felt winded.

"Boyd and Philip serve their country well, but it was always meant to be you at my side, Iain. Not them. And if you continue to prove yourself, I can see you rising in the ranks quite quickly. People will see you differently, and a new flat will seem... insignificant compared to what you could gain. Whatever you want, I can get it for you. All you have to do is follow orders."

"Whatever I want?" Iain sounded confused. "All I want is for us to be all right again."

This time Dad was silent.

Iain's voice was strained when he said, "I don't—I don't have to leave right away, you know. I can fix this place up first. I could use the money I was saving for a flat and give this old place a little new life. That way it won't be falling apart anymore."

James couldn't believe what he was hearing. After all Iain's talk about leaving, one conversation was all it took to change his mind, all it took to forget. Evidently their father could not believe what he was hearing either.

Dad spoke again after a few long minutes. His tone was flat. "You'd better hurry with that breakfast. Don't be late for the memorial."

James had scrambled from his hiding spot and tiptoed up the stairs to pack a jacket he'd forgotten. When he was done, he then stomped down the stairs like a barrage of elephants so that everyone heard him coming down.

The scent of ham sizzling in a pan wafted from the kitchen, and James wondered if he might have time for breakfast before he left. All he'd packed were highly processed snacks from the pantry. He didn't know when he would have a nice meal again once he was out of the city and away from civilization, especially one of his brother's meals.

Dad peered down the hallway at him when James stopped on the last step. He was holding a steaming cup of tea.

"James"—he looked from James to his backpack—"where do you think you're going?"

James adjusted his pack on his shoulder and shrugged. "I'm going to the memorial."

"Why do you have a backpack?"

"I—I was going to visit the library after. I have books to take back."

Dad's mouth twitched into a thin frown, and James wilted slightly under his glare. "You think you're quite clever, don't you?" Dad asked.

James's pulse quickened. He shook his head, sputtering for something to say but unable to form a coherent response.

"You're not clever," Dad answered for him sharply. "But you are smart enough, surely, to learn from your mistakes. You're certainly smart enough to know you've done something wrong, or you would not be hiding the banned books in your room."

James silently said a prayer of thanks that he'd thought to hide the letters well enough in a different book.

With that, Dad strode over to the side table in the hallway, opened a drawer, and pulled out a book James recognized as one he'd hidden in his room. Dad stood back in front of James, holding up the book for him to see. His knuckles blanched, gripping the book like he wanted to cause it pain somehow.

Servants of The Winter Court: Unseelie Faeries and Their Ilk.

James stared ahead at the wall, thinking absently that there were much, much worse things he could be hiding in his room that he wasn't, and that most parents would be grateful for that. "What does it matter what I read?" he asked. "Maybe those books will make me clever."

"Why are you so interested in magic and curses?" Dad asked.

James shrugged. "I just like to read."

Dad retracted the book, tucking it under his arm. James made a mental note to watch where and when he put the book down. He was not sure if he would need it for his travels, but the fact that his father didn't want him to have it was motivation enough to want to take it anyway.

"It doesn't matter how many books you read on magic or the Fae, you'll still never know how truly ugly it all is until you're face-to-face with it."

"I've seen magic before," James countered.

"Street performers, I suspect, flouting their more flashy, harmless abilities." Dad's smile was thin. "No, I think when you do witness true magic, you'll know, and you'll regret any interest you had in witnessing it. I think you'll be regretting a great many things when that time comes."

When James finally looked his father in the face, the man's eyes flashed, and James felt a jolt of something like fear. He shrugged it off.

Dad reached out. "I'd like you to hand over your backpack."

"I don't think I want to."

His father leaned forward to respond but stopped when he heard Iain shuffle into the room. James scowled at his brother, who looked between them, giving James a questioning glance.

"You want breakfast before we leave for the memorial, James?" Iain asked finally.

"Your brother will not be going to the memorial," Dad answered for him. "He'll be staying at home for quite some time, save for going to and from school, as he cannot be trusted not to break curfew or other city laws."

"I won't stay here," James said firmly.

"James," Iain warned, looking between the two of them. "That's enough."

When Dad looked away from Iain again to sip at his tea, Iain gestured wildly and mouthed, "What's going on?"

James just shook his head, not wanting to get Iain involved. Iain already knew about a few of the banned books but only the harmless ones that were mostly children's stories. If Iain knew about the books on magic, James suspected Iain wouldn't be so intent on protecting him. Iain wouldn't understand that James's interest in magic was purely academic.

"Iain," Dad said sharply. "Take a look inside James's backpack."

Iain held out his hand for the bag obediently.

Like a good soldier. Like Boyd, James thought bitterly.

He shot Iain a pleading look before handing it over slowly.

Iain's brow creased in concern, and he hesitated before opening the bag. James had no idea what Iain suspected was inside, but at first he seemed relieved. Iain's features were blank as he rifled around.

"It's just a library book. On flowers, of all things," Iain said shortly, holding it up for his father to see. "Was there supposed to be something else?"

There was no way Iain, as perceptive as he was, had missed the abundance of snacks and clothing and survival gear contained in the backpack even if the letters were hidden safely. James wished he could feel grateful for Iain sparing him their father discovering the items, but all he could focus on was the lump in his throat.

Iain's tired gaze narrowed on James. James glanced away.

Dad seemed to accept this. He dismissed Iain and ordered James to his room and forbade him from leaving that day. James did not protest. Being alone in the house was the perfect opportunity to perfect his packing and then leave undetected.

James retreated upstairs, his energy and enthusiasm renewed for his upcoming journey. He was now certain he was making the right choice by leaving. He couldn't stand to be in the house for a moment longer.

For the next hour while Iain and Dad prepared for the day, James stayed up in his room and pretended to sulk. He decided that silence was his best option if Iain asked about the backpack. When he heard Iain pounding up the stairs to speak with him, James felt he was ready to handle any questions.

Iain sat on the bed opposite him. James waited for Iain to speak, but his brother said nothing for a few long minutes. He just stared at the floor. That was somehow so much worse than being shouted at.

"Why'd you lie?" James asked finally.

"You were in enough trouble. And I hoped you'd explain so I can understand."

James fiddled absently with a loose thread on his bedspread.

"Did something happen? Is this about last night?" Iain asked. "Because if it is, you could just tell me about it, and we could work something out."

James felt his resolve crumbling, but he bolstered it with the remnants of his anger.

Nothing had happened. Iain couldn't possibly understand that wanting to leave was about more than escape. It was about discovery. The only person who might still understand that was Deirdre.

When James did not answer, eventually Iain rose to his feet again and said, "Maybe you'll be ready to talk about it after my shift, yeah?"

James gave no indication he heard.

After Iain and Dad left for the memorial, James finished packing. Before he went downstairs, he stood in front of the mirror above his dresser and stared. He grabbed his mother's scarf and tied it around his neck. It felt right. There would be no one to tell him not to wear it anymore or frown when they saw it, like remembering Mum only brought pain. He reached up, brushing the fabric with his fingers.

I'm coming to find you, Mum.

He leaped down the stairs and then searched the downstairs floor for a minute before locating the book in the den where his father had left it. After carefully putting the book in his backpack, he headed toward the door without hesitation.

It was only when he strode outside with an unusual spring in his step that he remembered the guard who sat between him and freedom. He bit his lip, wondering if his father had warned the guard that James was not supposed to leave the house.

But he won't stop me. Nobody can.

Somehow any fear he had vanished. All that was left was determination.

As James marched up to the gate with confidence, the guard, who was lounging in his seat with his feet propped up on his desk, sat up a little and narrowed his gaze on him. The guard's eyebrows rose as he noticed James's scarf, but he said nothing about it.

James stood there, waiting for the gate to open. He figured if he looked like he knew what he was about and that he wasn't up to anything he shouldn't be, that he would be fine. For good measure, he waved enthusiastically.

With a small nod, the guard opened the gate, allowing James outside the property. His heart nearly beating out of his chest, he walked down the street, not giving his home another glance.

More and more, he felt an odd sense of purpose, as if he was doing the right thing, like it was written in the stars, if one believed in such a thing. He was beginning to.

James took a deep whiff of the acrid city air and then grinned. "Goodbye, disgusting, filthy air," he said cheerfully, knowing that soon he'd be breathing the fresh, crisp air of the countryside.

It occurred to him that he might not see or experience any of the familiar sights, sounds, or sensations of Neo-London for a while. He glanced around as he walked, taking everything in, focusing on minor details that he usually rushed past in a blur on a normal day. He said goodbye to the tiny, dilapidated park over the road where he and Iain used to climb trees and play football with local kids when they were young. They always accused the brothers of cheating, though Iain's team usually won only because the other kids were scared he'd bulldoze them or place a curse on them. Iain hadn't seemed to mind.

As much as James disliked the city and wanted to explore the places beyond its walls, he had to admit that part of him was grateful to it. The city had raised him, taught him. It was the only home he'd known.

After saying his farewells to the shops down the street, James finally did look back. He could just barely see the rooftops of the military housing on the hill.

Goodbye, rotting, run-down house and everything that happened there.

* * *

Deirdre had been pushing down tears since they stepped inside the headquarters. She had been escorted straight back to a cell, and her new backpack, its contents, and her change purse had been taken. There were no windows in the cell; it was stifling.

A few minutes after she arrived, a soldier passed by; she stood as near the icy bars as she could bear and asked, "Aren't they supposed to be asking me questions? I haven't done anything wrong, and I haven't broken any laws or anything!" When the soldier just kept walking, she shouted, "What about Ms. Becket, at the dorms? She'll be expecting me! Hasn't she called?"

"She was told you are being held for theft," the guard replied, slowing his pace slightly. "She's not coming, so you'd best sit tight and stay quiet."

"But..." Her chin began to quiver. "Am I going to just be left in here? Forever?"

"Doubtful. We'd move you to another location for something like that. Now be quiet."

She sighed, glad her most immediate fear was dispelled. But they STILL might keep me locked up. But why? This doesn't make any sense!

Sleep didn't come easily. It was noisy with drunkards and faeries being taken in and out of the cells around her. And there was nothing in her cell except for the cold cement floor.

She was already awake when the first light of dawn came through the small iron-barred window. She was sitting with her back against the wall, feeling sick and sorry for herself. Tears had come on and off all night, and now they were rising up again, this time in frustration.

I wish I was back at the orphanage. I wish I had never come to this city. And now, she sniffed, I won't even be able to meet up with James like I said I would! She curled up, burying her face in her arms. I wonder if James will look for me when I don't show up? Somehow I doubt it... He's nice, but he's just a kid. I wonder what he'll do then? Will he go without me?

Her eyes widened as she remembered him harping on about all his silly ideas about camping and traveling alone.

"He's going to get into so much trouble," she whispered, looking up at the small window. "But what can I do? I'm not allowed to leave yet. Who knows how many rules I'd be breaking if I tried..."

She sighed, leaning forward, shutting her eyes tight. What should I do? I promised James I'd go, and breaking promises is wrong. But I can't just break the rules and run out of here! But if I don't...

"He might get himself killed," she realized in a whisper. In her mind's eye, she could only see all the close calls she'd either been in or witnessed while camping and hiking. And unlike her and the other orphanage girls, he was going to be totally alone, with no one to help him.

She stood up, holding up clenched fists, glaring ahead in determination.

"I said I wouldn't let him go alone, and I won't," she decided.

She hesitated only a moment when she realized she didn't have a plan. Deciding to get out of the cell first, she went over to the bars and shouted, "I need to go to the loo!"

No response.

"I said, I need to go to the loo!"

No response.

"I'll climb up and go out the window if you don't let me go right—"

"Shut up!" A white-haired soldier came around the corner; there were large bags under his eyes. He was probably finishing his night shift. Deirdre didn't see any other guards around, so she guessed he was working overtime.

He must not have anyone to spend the holiday with... that's sad!

"I need to go!" she repeated.

"You have a pail in there, don't'cha?" he shot back.

"No, I don't!"

The soldier came to investigate. "Oh... I suppose you don't." He rubbed his eyes wearily, letting out a sigh.

"So can I use the loo?" Deirdre persisted.

"You aren't allowed to leave the cell even if you just nicked something at the market," he replied.

She tilted her head. "Huh?"

"You're here because you tried to pinch a trinket. Just hold tight until your family or someone comes—"

"I CAN'T hold it, that's what I'm saying! Come on, there aren't any other guards here to get mad at you," she whined, guessing.

"Even so, rules are rules!" the guard snapped, though his voice was uncertain.

He's really the only one here? Then...

Sucking in a fake shuddering breath, she sunk to the floor. "Why are you so mean? I didn't think I stole anything... I don't even know why I'm in here! I just came to the city to go to school, and now I'm in jail and I don't know why, and I can't even use the bathroom like a normal person because you're all cruel!" She fake-cried into her hands, continuing her plaintive wails. "I wanna go h-home!"

When she didn't stop crying for a minute or so, the guard began to mutter, shaking his head, "Bloody hell... I don't even know why you're here... you should've been handled by the juvenile officers. This isn't my job." He sighed. "Fine!" He took out his keys, heading to the door of the cell. "We're just going there and then coming back here! And you'll have to wear these"—he held up a pair of handcuffs—"with your hands behind your back. Understood?"

"Behind my back?" She sniffed. "Are you SERIOUS? How am I supposed to—"

"Fine, in front, whatever! But you've got to wear them. And no funny business. Got it?"

She nodded, sniffling into her sleeve.

The guard unlocked the door and gestured for her to come out. The keys were in his hand, and he briefly fumbled with them as he got the handcuffs ready.

Darting forward and wrenching the keys from his hand in one motion, she slipped past him and ran for the gated exit to the rest of the building. The guard shouted, running after her; she shoved the keys into the locked exit and turned them, unlocking the door. The guard right behind her, she grabbed the door and swung it open at him as hard as she could, shutting her eyes.

There was a loud clang, followed by a bodily, dull thud. Deirdre opened her eyes to see the soldier facedown on the ground. He wasn't completely knocked out; in half a second, he began groaning, shifting.

She fled, her heart racing fast, snooping through a couple of rooms until she found a room with her backpack. It was open; the guard seemed to have been cataloging everything.

Scooping her things back into her backpack, she threw it on her shoulders and ran out of the room. By then she heard the soldier beginning to move, swearing.

Racing down the hall, she opened a door leading to a narrow foyer. There were a few people there; she barely stopped herself from running across the floor and began to walk in what she hoped was a casual manner.

At first no one noticed her, but when she was nearly at the door, the guard stumbled out of the detention block she had come from. There was a moment where everyone froze, looking at him. Deirdre recovered first and sprinted for the exit, even as he shouted, "Halt! Stop her! She's not supposed to leave!"

She threw the door open and bolted outside. The iron gates outside were closed; she tried the lock, but it held fast. The iron seemed to burn her skin. But when a couple of soldiers ran out the building after her, she grabbed the bars and shimmied up the gate. They shouted at her to stop; one took out a gun and fired. He aimed low, but the sound rushed her into action. She barely felt the sting of the iron in her haste to escape. At the top, she simply rolled off, landing on all fours like a cat.

Her knees hurt and her hands were scraped, but she pushed herself up and kept going. The guards were unlocking the gate to follow, but she had already turned the corner by the time they were finished. Wind whipped past her, her hair streaming back as she ran as fast as her legs could carry her. As she ran into a crowd of people out for the holiday, she began to pace herself but didn't slow more than needed. She only paused once to check the time on a clock post on a street corner; it was nearly time to meet James.

The crowd thickened ahead, and she made a beeline for it. There were soldiers among them, and for a split second she hesitated.

But how could they find me in this crowd?

Glancing over her shoulder, she continued on and dove into the throng.

* * *

Iain was stationed to stand guard on the street across from Ferriers Town. The parade started from the royal palace, near the city center, and ended there after a loop around. He was to stand just in front of the crowd on one side of the street to keep people from crossing and to break up any rows or protests that could ignite.

"I guess you won't be seeing much of us anymore, aye?" Philip asked, sidling up to him. He was dressed in full regalia, and he looked quite official. "When you moving into your flat?"

Much to Iain's irritation, he was working under Philip Prance for the memorial, as he was in the youngest ranks at seventeen—nearly eighteen—and still considered to be in training under a commander's supervision. At least Boyd was marching in the parade and would not be able to glare at him the entire time.

In a way, Boyd harassing him was preferable to Philip trying to make small talk. While Boyd could be mean as hell, he at least was honest with Iain about his hatred toward him. Philip, on the other hand, was a more insidious creature, because he was passive, neutral; he neither condemned nor praised Boyd's abuse.

"Not likely. I still have to work with you, you know," Iain replied without enthusiasm. "I'm taking James to see the flat sometime this week. Dunno when I'll be moving in."

"Where is your brother at anyway?" Philip asked, glancing around as if expecting to find him lurking somewhere close by. "Follows you like a shadow, that one."

"He's staying home today," Iain muttered.

"Ah, in trouble again?" Philip chuckled. "I know what that's like, having a little brother and all."

Iain nearly choked on a laugh at the comparison of James and Boyd. The two could not be more opposite, and Iain felt extremely proud of that fact. The little trouble James's mischief or curiosity occasionally got him into was hardly like the strife and torment Boyd inflicted regularly and with intention.

The crowd behind Iain was growing more and more restless as the minutes passed, and as the music from the marching band could be heard from a distance, the excited chattering increased in volume. Iain's eyes narrowed on a group of clearly Fae-looking individuals that were trickling out from Ferriers Town on the other side of the street. The crowd's demeanor changed, and several people began to point in the direction of the town.

Iain tensed, remembering what his father had told him earlier that morning. Turning to Philip reluctantly, Iain asked, "What's with their lot?"

"There've been reports of riots forming." Philip then handed Iain a polycarbonate, transparent shield. Iain took it, testing the weight of it on his arm. It was sturdy and heavy, but he could lift it with ease. "I know you can handle yourself in a scrap. That's why I stationed you here, in case anything goes down."

Iain nodded. Then, after a moment of pondering the statement, he asked, "Why would they riot?"

"I wouldn't think on it," Philip said. "It's their nature to cause trouble. I'm sure you can relate a bit."

Iain ignored the jab. He did not know faeries to be more predisposed to cause trouble than humans were. He'd never been bothered by many Fae during his shifts. They mostly kept to themselves. Then again, he thought he would be foolish to underestimate them, given what his father had divulged to him earlier.

"With most of the Iron Infantry being in the parade, who's looking out for the officials?"

"Don't worry about that. There's more Iron Infantry soldiers keeping an eye on everyone, including your old man." Philip clapped him on the back. "The only thing we Iron Wardens need to worry about is keeping the civilians safe and in line."

Soon the parade reached their street. Iain watched as the King's Army marched along in neat, precise rows. He smiled faintly, feeling the same sense of wonderment he'd felt watching the parade with his father when he was a child. For a moment he caught himself tapping his foot along to the beat of the music but quickly corrected himself.

You're a soldier now. Not a civilian. No fun allowed, yeah?

Still smiling, Iain straightened his posture a little when something bright and colorful caught his eye over the road. A flash of red hair. Deirdre bobbed through the crowd with a spring in her step. Iain wondered if she had anything to do with James's current mood.

Iain soon returned his focus to the parade and to the ever-growing cluster of Fae that were gathering on the other side of the street. He was glad James was safe at home even if he would have to deal with his sulking and brooding for the rest of the day when he returned home.

* * *

The music set a brisk tempo for Deirdre as she made her way through the crowds, giving all soldiers as wide a berth as possible. She aimed for a tall building beside the alley they were to go through to the city's exit. The streets were packed with people; she accidentally ran into one man, whose thick, dark glasses slipped down his nose. His eyes were deep yellow, like a hawk.

A faery. She gulped as he shoved past her, readjusting his glasses. I guess faeries are allowed here... though I guess there's no reason why not.

Smiling despite her nerves, she continued weaving through the crowd. The idea of faeries and humans celebrating together at such a lively event was a nice one; she wondered if this happened every year. If so, it certainly seemed like a good sign of humans and faeries getting along.

I hope the soldiers don't make any mistakes with the faeries like they did with me.

Getting to the corner of the building, she jumped up its front stairs and stood up on her toes, scanning the crowd for James. Remembering how he startled her last time, she looked behind her and was only mildly surprised to see him emerging from the crowd. With relief, she didn't see any books on his person. Actually, he was much more lightly packed than she had hoped.

"Ready to go?" he asked with a small smile. "We need to hurry."

Immediately she nodded. "Yes, let's get going." As she followed him down the stairs and into the back alley, she asked, "Did you remember to pack everything you need?"

"Yeah." He glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting to see someone following. She looked around too, relieved that no one was watching them.

Looking back at James, she asked, "And that's a raincoat you're wearing, right?"

"Huh? No, it's not."

"Ohh..." She pursed her lips. "Do you have one in your pack?"

"No, I... wait." He halted, holding her back with his arm. "Look, up there. We'll have to wait until they pass."

She looked up; a few blocks down the alley was the large wall that encircled the city. She could see an exit; it was open, but there were only a couple of guards on the ground. They were walking briskly by, looking a bit bored.

"They're sweeping up and down this whole area," James explained as they began to walk quietly and slowly toward the wall after the guards disappeared from sight. "We have about a minute to pass through before they come back."

Remembering some of what James had explained yesterday, Deirdre looked up at the wall; she could not see if there was anyone or anything up on the top or not. She pointed up at the top. "What about on the wall? Will anyone there see us?"

"No, there are only a few people up there today." James glanced up at the wall. "They'll be looking out for vehicles and faeries; they won't even notice normal-looking people like us. That's why we don't need to hide our faces or anything... they'd pay more attention to us if they couldn't tell we were human."

"That makes sense. I never would have thought of that! That's really clever!" She beamed at James, feeling relieved by his confidence and foresight.

He did not seem to know how to answer, but he didn't look displeased as he gestured for her to follow.

As they walked at a casual pace, Deirdre eventually asked, "Why would you need to hide your face though? You haven't got into any trouble with the soldiers, right?"

He shook his head but didn't answer otherwise.

Frowning, she pressed, "So is something else wrong? I mean, I don't think anyone would bother with remembering what you look like."

"Umm..." His expression was somewhat offended.

"I mean, you're just a normal English kid," she hurriedly explained.

"Well, it's just better that no one bothers to ask us anything. It'd just waste time."

"Oh." She shrugged and followed him; they were only about a block from the wall and the exit. But already she could see a faintly green light from the other side, reflecting grassy plains and open countryside. Feeling the weight of the past twelve hours beginning to fall from her shoulders, she began to hum happily, though she kept her voice low.

Chapter Thirteen

While watching the parade as a boy, Iain had always been interested in seeing King Eadred, the head of the monarchy of Britain. Growing up, he had heard his father sing the king's praises for the most part, unless it came to his lax Fae policies, which his father was very outspoken about and battled about frequently within the military.

He had also heard his mother's harsh critiques of the king's treatment of minorities and immigrants. Despite all the mixed opinions he'd heard and his own slight distrust of the monarchy he'd struggled with because of those opinions, today would be Iain's first time seeing the king while serving in part of his army. It would be a true honor, politics aside.

Halfway through the parade, Philip nudged Iain's arm and said, "Callaghan, you think we could chat for a bit sometime?"

Iain gaped at him, wondering if the noise from the parade had deafened him somehow. Philip looked uncomfortable, as if he was surprised by his own question. Iain watched in wonderment as Philip began to fidget and mess with the buttons on his uniform. He was nervous.

"What could we have a chat about?" Iain focused on the street again. "Gals and the latest match over a few scoops or something equally as riveting?"

Philip cleared his throat. "Nah. Nothing like that."

"How about you just tell me then, and quit prancing around the subject. Your brother's never held back."

Philip squinted at Iain. "Never took you for the petty type. That's more Boyd's speed."

Philip was right, and Iain's satisfaction had faded almost instantly after he'd spoken. Trying to maintain his bitterness toward Philip for an entire conversation was exhausting and tedious. Indifference was easier.

"I was just trying it out," Iain said, his mouth twitching into a wry grin.

"Doesn't suit you."

"No. It doesn't."

"Everything's always rolled off your back. I've always admired that, even when you were being a right prat."

Iain chuckled, relaxing somewhat. "What did you want to chat about then?"

"I'd rather not, uh, discuss it here."

Iain only shrugged.

Iain followed Philip's lead and saluted at the proper times. Philip soon left him, however, when he got an order on his radio to deal with a slight row breaking out a few blocks away outside a pub. He was glad to be alone again.

Iain straightened his posture and watched intently as a car carrying General Callaghan and General Windsor drove by. He kept expecting his father to look his way, so he wanted to make sure he was doing everything properly, but his father never did glance over.

There were cheers and applause as the horse-drawn carriage escorting King Eadred came into view. People started to nudge him, trying to see past him.

Iain sucked in a breath, and his hand flew to the back of his neck as sharp fingernails raked across his skin hard enough to leave a mark. When Iain turned around, he froze, watching as Elaine danced out of sight in the crowd, her teeth flashing a laughing smile.

He didn't know how long he'd been staring after her when he heard the sound of hooves clacking and the piercing sound of a horse's agitated whinny. Iain turned back to the street. The king's horses were alarmed, their ears folding back and their muscles twitching. The driver attempted to calm the creatures but to no avail. Iain wondered what had upset them, just before he got his answer.

It happened fast. There were cries of alarm. Before he realized what was happening, people were pushing against him frantically. Righting himself before he lost his balance, he pushed back against the crowd and held up his shield, trying to keep anyone from running into the street.

Across the way, someone ran in front of the carriage. When Iain moved to act, several Iron Wardens instantly tackled the being to the ground. The king was being urged to stay put by his bodyguards.

Someone shoved Iain hard against his back; he was facedown on the pavement before he registered what had happened, his chin scraping against the concrete, a burst of light flashing behind his eyelids.

Voices rose up around him. People were crowding him, stepping in front of him, over him. Their legs obscured his view somewhat, but through the bodies, Iain lifted his head dizzily to see a figure leaping past him into the street, heading straight for the king's carriage.

"Move!" Iain shouted, shoving people out of his way as he jumped to his feet.

"Someone stop him!" A man shouted from behind.

The king's bodyguards had their guns trained on the man.

Before Iain could move, a blinding flash of light sparked from the street, and a thick, dark purple smoke rose up from around the carriage, swallowing the king and his guards. The attacker dove into the cloud.

Screams erupted from all around. Iron Infantry members were already sprinting toward the carriage, weapons drawn, General Windsor leading the charge and shouting something unintelligible.

A soldier stumbled out of the smoke, barreling past Iain, and fell to his knees hacking and choking. The soldier's skin was a bright, angry blistering red, as if he'd been scaled with boiling water.

General Windsor staggered backward out of the smoke. He had hold of a body and bellowed hoarsely for help, his voice laced with desperation.

Iain watched with wide eyes, locked in place. An Iron Warden ran up to him dressed in full riot gear. "Clear these people out of here. Now!"

It was at that moment when a gust of wind whipped through the street, swirling the smoke into the air and spreading it further down.

Cries of alarm and pain echoed through the street as the smoke swept toward them. People doubled over coughing, staggering.

"Get out of the way!" Iain shouted, his eyes beginning to water and burn from the smoke. "Move and keep your eyes and mouth covered!" He began to motion people down the street and away from the smoke. "Keep moving!"

As he herded the crowd as best he could, using his shield to steer people in the right direction, he pulled off his hat with his free hand and covered his mouth and nose with the fabric, but it did little to stop his lungs from seizing up. He tried to call out again as another Iron Warden ran over to aid him, but he could only gasp, his chest feeling like fire.

A mother collapsed on the pavement at Iain's feet, clutching her child in her arms to shield him from the smoke. The woman's arms were twitching uncontrollably, reaching out to him. She sputtered for someone to take the child.

Iain dropped his hat and grabbed the screaming child from her arms, holding him against his chest with one arm. As two Iron Wardens lifted the woman to her feet between them, Iain motioned again for everyone to follow him. He had to get them away from the smoke.

Gunshots rang from the street behind Iain as he led the people away, but he did not look back.

People rushed into an office building a block away. Once Iain reached the doors, several more Iron Wardens ran out to corral more people inside.

Some people were lying on the floor of the building, their breathing labored and shallow. A girl lay sobbing with her head in her friend's lap, writhing as someone poured water over her streaming, bloodshot eyes. A paramedic was kneeling beside a man, holding an oxygen mask to his face and coaching him to breathe past the pain.

Iain struggled to breathe for a moment, his throat burning. He stood there for a long while, unaware he was still holding the child until another Iron Warden pried him away and reunited him with his now stabilized mother. His ears rang from the child's cries.

For a few minutes he stood there, deaf to the panicked murmurings around him. He replayed everything that had happened in his mind, trying to sort it out, but wound up just going in circles.

It was not long before the room was filled with civilians. Most of them were unharmed by the smoke, having been upwind from the attack. Most of the people who weren't suffering were antsy, restless, crowding by the glass windows to peer outside and constantly asking questions. The rest remained true to their British sensibilities, remaining calm and polite.

One of the Iron Wardens walked up to Iain and said, "I'm heading out. I've been called to Ferriers Town."

"Got it." Iain nodded.

"Ferriers Town?" Evidently the soldier spoke loud enough for more than Iain to hear, because a man dressed in business attire, well put together save for his red, sweating face, came lumbering up to the two of them, jabbing a finger at them accusatorily. "I hope you're going there to arrest those bloody faeries or burn the damn place to the ground. Like their lot need protecting when they're the ones who've done this!"

Iain's face twitched in disgust.

He had seen this man before—not specifically, but he knew his type well enough. Iain had encountered every type of person in the city, so it was rare that any behavior surprised him anymore. This man was the type who harbored nasty opinions he considered superior; only, he never had the chance to express those opinions out of fear of being ostracized.

He'll have his little rant, but he won't do anything. Doesn't have the guts. And if he does... I won't let him get that far.

The Iron Warden ignored the man and walked out the door and into the street, following his orders dutifully. Almost everyone ignored the man's ranting as well, save for a few people who groaned or shouted at him to shut it. Worse still, Iain thought he heard a few murmurs of agreement.

Iain shifted so that he was stationed in front of the door, shield still in hand, blocking the outspoken man from leaving should he decide to do anything stupid.

The man paced shortly, then turned on Iain. "So you're going to stand there while those faeries are out there still, no doubt celebrating their latest achievement in the nice little town you've set up for them?" The man scoffed, looking Iain over with great scrutiny. "What a fitting image of how low this city has sunk, putting punks like you in charge."

"You should take a seat," Iain said calmly. He hoped the man would listen. Having to arrest anyone in this situation could spark panic. For emphasis, Iain brushed his hand casually over the cuffs at his belt.

The man stared him down for a long moment. Iain kept his gaze focused on the wall across from him, his face blank. The man stood down, muttering a few more equally unpleasant words and phrases under his breath before plopping back down to his seat on the floor.

As time dragged on without further incident, Iain made a few passes around the room, answering questions where he could and just trying to keep order and calm. After half an hour, a few more stragglers were led inside, and as Iain went over to tend to them, he felt his throat close up a second time, though this time it had nothing to do with smoke.

Elaine...

She appeared to be in rough shape—more than what was normal for her. Propped up between a civilian and a soldier, her feet dragging on the ground, her limbs limp and pale, she looked more like a corpse than a living human woman.

As the soldiers lowered her to the floor to lean against the wall, she let out a wheezy, shuddering cough, her eyes screwing shut in pain. When her eyes opened again, heavily lidded, they were quick to lock on him. Even dazed with pain, she still found her smirk and wore it unabashedly.

Iain, without hesitation, grabbed the paramedic's attention and ushered her to Elaine's aid with the oxygen mask. He knelt down on the ground a few feet away, watching silently as the paramedic treated her until she could breathe properly again.

"You all right?" Iain asked once the paramedic left them. He maintained the distance between them.

"You should've had me left passed out on the street," Elaine suggested, eyeing him closely as if to gauge his reaction. "It'd only be fair, wouldn't it, love?"

"Are you all right?" he asked again tightly, ignoring her twisted attempt at humor or to get a rise out of him and ignoring the way his stomach turned.

"Like you care." There was a thump as Elaine threw her head back against the wall. She glared up at the ceiling, rubbing at her eyes and smudging her dampened eye makeup. "No, you'd never do that, would you? Too good for that."

Sensing the conversation was going nowhere pleasant, Iain stood. "If you're all right, then I should go around and check on everyone else—"

"But you're not too good for me," Elaine interjected, her voice hard. "You only think you are. But you're not good at all. Not anymore."

"You should save your breath," Iain suggested seriously, though he quietly enjoyed the hidden insult. "You're only getting yourself worked up."

"You're worked up!"

As Iain turned, Elaine slammed her hands down on the floor, causing several people to look up in alarm, halting him. In that moment, Iain felt he could finally see her clearly: she had reached the edges of her desperation—she had given up now that he pretended nothing she said got to him. There would be no fun in it for her now.

"That ginger girl," Elaine drawled, "she probably thinks she's too good for everything too. Poor Red. She's got some hard lessons to learn." Elaine chuckled, her demeanor shifting and switching as abruptly as the English weather—one moment a raging rainstorm, the next a clear, calm sky.

Why bring the girl up? She's got nothing to do with any of this...

"You know," Elaine continued, staring past Iain at the wall, "pretty little Red reminds me of you, back when we first met. You were so young, innocent, stupid, and so hopeful about this hellhole of a country.

"Of course, once I was done with you, nothing of that kid was left. I don't think that stupid boy would even recognize you now."

Iain ignored her jabbing words. Most of what she said, he knew, was meant to distract him from the real point. "But that girl won't be seeing you around, will she?" he asked. "I meant what I said the other day, Elaine."

Elaine did not laugh this time as she had the last time he'd threatened to report her.

"I'm leaving the city soon anyway." Elaine took a few steadying breaths, relaxing back against the wall again. "I'm meant for bigger things than what this city's got to offer me anymore."

"Is that so?" He hoped it was true, but she'd always liked to talk big. He hoped she was leaving. He hoped she did have something better lined up for her elsewhere.

"If you were smart, you'd get out of here too. Things are changing—even the freaks in Ferriers Town sense it. And after what happened today, that just proves it."

Before Iain could ask her what she meant or puzzle it out himself, Elaine just sighed and twisted her face away from him. "I'm tired," she said.

This time when Iain turned away from her and walked away, he did not look back. "Take care of yourself, Elaine," Iain said with sincerity and finality.

Iain made his rounds, focusing only on following his orders and refusing to become distracted again. At least another half hour passed before Philip Prance, sweating and pale, walked purposefully into the building to replace him. Iain could honestly say it was the first time he was glad to see him. He locked eyes with Iain's as he strode determinedly toward him. Iain finally set his shield down on the floor.

Philip grabbed him by the shoulder. "I've just found Boyd with your father. They're both fine."

Iain could almost breathe properly again. He wanted to ask Philip about the king, but he knew better than to risk panicking the already anxious civilians in the room.

"We're about to start moving the civilians out of here and farther down the street away from the incident. Transportations have shut down, so it will be a while before anyone can get home."

Iain nodded, thinking that was for the best. The room was stuffed nearly to capacity. Moving would at least give people something to do other than sit and wonder what had happened.

"Listen, Callaghan," Philip said urgently, "I saw your brother when I got sent on that call earlier. I'm giving you permission to look for him. I've sent word for backup here so you can go."

Iain took off instantly, darting past people on his way out of the building. Behind him, he heard the protests of the civilians, asking if they could leave too. The small bit of fear he had felt disappeared in an instant. His lungs burned as he ran and dodged through the crowd, but he did not let up.

He passed by the now-quiet street where King Eadred had been. The carriage remained, empty and abandoned, but the horses and everyone were gone. The street looked slick in some places, like it was wet. Tiny fragments of metal glittered on the pavement. Iain was certain the king had been protected. The Iron Infantry was one of the greatest specialized forces in all of Europe.

The streets were nearly empty. He saw a few people and paramedics huddled around an unconscious but breathing body on the ground. He pushed through to get a better look. It wasn't James.

Iain spent another hour scouring every street the parade traveled down, finding nothing. Before too long, the Iron Wardens and Iron Infantry flooded the streets, sending people in buildings or sulking in back alleys away and telling them to find somewhere safe and secure, telling them there was nothing to worry about, but the festivities were cancelled. Military tanks and vehicles lumbered up the streets, and soon the military personnel were all that were left out in the open. It was a strange sight. It was if the entire military had taken the city over by early afternoon.

Eventually, as Iain neared the government buildings, he saw the tall, unmistakable silhouette of his father in the distance, surrounded by a small crowd of members of the Iron Infantry and a group of people in lab coats who were clearly not with the military. Relief filled his chest as he neared the group, knowing that General Callaghan would know what to do.

Maybe he's found James already...

Over the heads of people gathered, Iain could just see the top of some type of metallic machine. He'd never seen anything like it. As Iain stepped closer to get a better look, a few Iron Infantry soldiers barred him from going any farther.

The machine whirred to life, stopping Iain in his tracks like the soldiers were attempting to do. Before his eyes, the smoke began to dissipate from the air as if it had never existed, shimmering into nothingness. It was the machine.

"General Callaghan!" Iain called recklessly, as loudly as he could manage with his lungs still aching from the smoke.

General Callaghan turned his head toward him and then went back to discussing something with the group around him. A few minutes agonizingly passed before he finally made his way to Iain.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, looking Iain over quickly.

Iain shook his head impatiently. "Have you seen James?"

"He should be at home, where he was ordered to stay."

"Prance said he saw James in the crowd. I can't find him."

General Callaghan's expression was unfamiliar and concerning. For the first time in Iain's life, he saw what fear looked like etched in his father's face. "Where would James have gone?"

Iain wracked his brain for any slip of information, but he was too frazzled to think. "I dunno, I dunno," he murmured. He drummed his fingers against his forehead, as if that would help. He pressed his fingers against his closed eyes, hard enough to where red burst behind them in the darkness.

A flash of red...

Iain opened his eyes. "I saw James's friend, the ginger, Deirdre, during the parade. She was walking toward the city entrance. James must have gone to meet her."

General Callaghan's face visibly drained of color. "That makes finding him quickly all the more crucial."

"What do you mean?"

"Iain, how well do you know James's friend?"

"Not well at all. There isn't much to know." Frowning, Iain asked, "Why?"

General Callaghan held out his hands as one might do to quiet a frightened animal. "We have caught many Fae involved in the attack but not whomever orchestrated it. Trust me when I say that I am as surprised as you are that Deirdre was involved. There are many witnesses that put her at the scene."

Iain let out a nervous laugh. "She's not a faery. She's..." He shook his head. "She's just not capable of doing something like that. She's... harmless."

He didn't know why he thought that. He had no reason to think anything about her at all. All he knew about her was that she was an orphan, that she had little sense but enough sense to befriend his brother.

"I thought you said you didn't know her well at all?" His father glared at him. "Now you're defending her? I find that troubling. Your judgment is often... flawed."

"I'm not defending anything. It's just that she seems..." He trailed off as his father stared at him like he was a rare oddity.

She seems like a nice kid, Iain thought instantly, instinctually. A nice kid that's maybe a little lost... maybe a little strange, but good, like James... like—

He flinched, unable to let himself finish the thought, feeling as though he had given his doubt power by thinking it.

Don't be stupid! Iain corrected himself harshly. You don't even know her. You know nothing about her. And she went to Ferriers Town... and the way the banshee was talking, if what she said was even true... maybe she is a faery!

"I see," General Callaghan said. "It's because of how human she appears. But she's not human. There's no need to feel compassion for her. She certainly feels no compassion for any of us. She doesn't feel anything."

Iain nodded once uncertainly. He did not want to admit to any doubt, though he felt quite a lot of it. He had to start thinking like a soldier, not like himself.

"The most powerful faeries are the most human in appearance but also the most monstrous. I have never seen a more human-looking faery in all my years of service. Their lot lies and tricks and manipulates as easily as breathing. It's no wonder she had you and James fooled."

"If she's with James—" Iain couldn't let himself finish his thought.

"Deirdre was seen leaving the city limits. James must be with her," General Callaghan said. "I do not think she will hurt him yet. I believe she is using him as leverage, a ransom, if you will, to achieve whatever ends she has in mind. James might not even be aware he's being used."

Iain's stomach churned.

"I'm sending a troop after them as soon as possible," General Callaghan assured him. "We will capture the faery alive, and she will face justice here in the city."

"We don't have time. I have to go after them. I have to find James."

"I will send troops after him as soon as possible. Until then—"

"No," Iain said firmly, taking a step toward his father. "You're not sending some grunts after him. It needs to be me. He's skittish at best around strangers. If you send some faceless soldiers after him, he'll think he's in trouble, and he'll run." Iain added, "Besides, if you just send me, maybe the faery won't suspect I know. Less chance for major casualties with just one soldier, yeah?"

"I need you here, at my side. Boyd will be outside the city, and I need someone I can trust." General Callaghan's expression flickered from cold to icy. "After what happened today, I would expect your loyalties to be to your country first and foremost. Your loyalty to me."

Iain asked, "What happened today anyway? What was that smoke?"

"It's not what happened that matters, it's what's been happening—what's happening now," General Callaghan said gravely. "It's something I hoped you'd never have to witness in your lifetime: warfare."

"Warfare?"

"That smoke was part of an attack on our government, on our country, on humanity. It was Fae magic, and it was a declaration of war. The Winter Court is done waiting on humanity to build them a weapon, and they're punishing us for it." General Callaghan ran a hand over his face wearily. "King Eadred is dead."

Iain inhaled sharply. "Someone ran past me..." He thought about the figure that had rushed by him and about the smoke again, how constricting it was.

"There were several perpetrators. They snuck by nearly everyone undetected. No one could have stopped them without suffering the same fate."

Iain barely had time to think about whether or not he could have possibly prevented the attack if he'd only thought faster, moved quicker, before General Callaghan continued.

"The public does not know it yet, but Edgar Windsor is in no condition to take over as king after this tragedy, and without a king, the government is inefficient. It will fall to shambles without intervention." When Iain looked confused, his father clarified, "I am going to propose martial law, temporarily. The military will be in complete control of England."

The thought of the military seizing control chilled Iain, though his father's tone of voice suggested the idea was pleasing to him.

"It may not seem like it now, but I believe that this, in the grand scheme of things, will result in what is best for our country. You may rest easy, knowing that I will be in command along with General Windsor, once he is up to the task. There will never be another Fae attack on humankind as long as I am in charge."

Iain pushed everything from his mind and focused solely on James. He could worry about everything else later, once James was back home. "There are hundreds of other Iron Wardens who could do my job better than I could."

"My purpose for you here is far more important than going after your brother." General Callaghan nailed him with a look. "I thought you wanted to help this city. Surely you don't think you'll be doing that by continuing to break up drunken fights or by patrolling for citizens breaking curfew?"

Iain glanced at the ground.

"The position I have for you here, by my side, is greater than anything you could conceive," General Callaghan continued. "It's the beginning of change in this city."

"I'm going after my brother." Iain stood his ground, every thread of apprehension gone from his body. "Nothing is more important to me than that right now. The city will still be here when I get back."

The general was quiet for a long minute, eyes boring into Iain, as if waiting for him to falter. But Iain stood his ground, hands clenched tightly but his expression calm.

"Fine," his father finally said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You'll go. But I will be sending someone along with you to make sure you follow orders. I'll give you a personal radio, and you'll communicate only with me."

"I understand."

After officially accepting his mission and learning a few more details, Iain left his father and began his trek back home. The trains and the Underground had been shut down, along with taxi services, so he went on foot. A bag containing everything he could need for up to a two-day journey would be delivered to the house. He nearly sprinted the whole way there, barely noticing the burning in his limbs and lungs.

Despite his certainty that James was gone, Iain looked through each room regardless. He checked their room last. While standing in their room, amidst the mess of James's belongings that were scattered on the floor as usual, he remembered James's backpack from that morning and everything that he'd packed inside.

Whether or not some treasonous faery had coerced James with magic or manipulated him with her words, Iain had to admit to himself that it was not beyond the realm of possibility that James had decided to leave on his own, perhaps out of spite or even to look for their mother like he had always planned. He hadn't been content for a while, and their conflict last night had not helped things. All he knew for certain was that James was in danger, and that was all that mattered.

Chapter Fourteen

The outskirts of the city had some housing units and supply depots, most of them looking deserted. James insisted they walk at a casual pace, as if they were headed to one of those buildings, just in case someone saw them. That proved to be unnecessary as there was no one there; even the buildings that were clearly still lived in were empty. One small market had its door shut, with a large sign on front reading: On Holiday for Memorial. Deirdre felt like they were the only people in the world who weren't inside the city, and for some reason the thought made her giggle.

They passed the last row of small wooden huts, and the gravel road eroded to dirt. There was one final wall to pass—a wooden fence about twice as high as a tall man, supported with thick iron posts. Deirdre craned her neck up and tried to see how far the fence went; it seemed to wrap a large circumference around the city, heading in a wide arc both ways toward the coast. She supposed it must reach straight to the shore on both sides of the city.

"Wow," James breathed.

They stepped through the wide-open iron-and-wood gate, standing at the top of a sharp, sloping incline. Beneath them was a vast carpet of countryside, marked with squares of light September wheat and green meadows, hedged off by lines of dark green and brown trees, some old and tall, some young and starting to take over parts of the fields. The lands were sloped gently, like a quilt that was laid slightly unevenly. A fresh, cool wind swept across it, bringing to Deirdre scents of plants, sunshine, rain, and early autumn.

Laughing, she swung her arms shamelessly as she started to skip down the dirt path. Every worry or uncertainty was forgotten. There was no way the soldiers would bother chasing her all the way out here.

How could I have ever dreamed of living in that horrible city?

James followed her, looking back over his shoulder again and then looking around him, his gaze often darting up and down, taking in all the details, even as he stumbled and skidded down the slope. The clouds cleared slightly, letting through sunlight—faintly warm, not at all hot or thick, just enough to put some feeling in their bones.

Deirdre jumped up on a stone off the path, stretching, soaking in the sunshine. She was still a bit tired and hungry from her sleepless night and practically no dinner or breakfast, but the sunlight revived her.

"Wow," James said one more time, pausing to turn and look at the panoramic view.

She laughed at him shamelessly. "Is this the first time you've been out of that city?"

He replied in slightly indignant tones, "Well, no, but... it'll be the longest."

Humming again loudly, she jumped off the stone and then asked, "So which way to the orphanage?"

"You don't remember?"

She giggled. "I wasn't really paying attention on the drive over here... plus the grocer said there were a lot of different ways to get there and back."

"Well, for a little while we'll stay on the road, then we'll go off and travel cross-country. Last night, I mapped out a really direct path, even faster than staying by the roads." He glanced behind them toward the city; it was lost from sight over the incline and behind the fence at the top.

Goodbye and good riddance. Deirdre stuck her tongue out at the city, turning and beginning to trot down the path.

They stayed on the road for about an hour. While they passed several farms, they never saw anyone; all the farmhouses were near the center of their lands rather than on the outskirts. The only sign of human life they came across were wire and wood fences (to keep livestock in and thieves out), carefully trimmed fields, and the occasional rubbish left by those who had driven past.

James was quick to spot and identify every bird and animal, large and small, wild and tame, that they came across. Deirdre tested his knowledge of wildflowers by asking the names of those they passed, from the common corn cockle to the daisy. He knew which ones were edible, but otherwise he wasn't quite as enthused about them.

As soon as they came to an unfenced field, clearly unowned, they turned off the road and headed James's route northeast. The fields they crossed were only recently abandoned, overgrown by one summer's lack of maintenance. The fields were dotted with small streams that could be easily crossed by stepping on a stone or two in their middle; Deirdre sprinted toward and leaped over each one. James did not imitate her but took his time to take the safest way across.

As he tried to figure out which wide, flat river rocks were the most stable to get across a broad but shallow stream, Deirdre took the chance to inspect the small field and found an old rusted cowbell. She carried it with them until they came across an ancient, low stone wall, separating the farmland from a stretch of woods. She placed the cowbell on the nicest spot she could find, then hurdled the wall. James climbed over it behind her, somehow getting his scarf stuck between two stones on the way.

"Just yank it out!" she advised.

In reply, he just gave her an affronted look and carefully worked the scarf free, then followed her under the shade of the trees.

It was close to midafternoon now, and James pulled a plastic-wrapped something out of his jacket pocket (after scrubbing his hands clean with some kind of cleansing wipe he kept a package of in his backpack).

"What's that?" Deirdre asked.

"A biscuit," he replied, unwrapping the package and taking a bite. "Do you want one? We won't reach the orphanage until tomorrow morning, so..."

"Sure, but just one."

For a while they munched in silence; he went for another biscuit after finishing the first, and Deirdre put her hand on his arm. "Maybe keep those for supper? If you eat too much and walk, you'll get cramps. Plus it'll just make you thirstier."

Though he agreed, she could tell he was hardly thrilled. As they crossed into the next spread of empty fields, he began to drag his feet. Deirdre doubted it was on purpose and so did not comment and slackened her pace some.

After about ten minutes of going at a slower speed, James spoke up, asking, "So, since we're looking for your family... do you know anything about them at all?"

Deirdre shook her head. "Nope. I was left at the orphanage door with just my name; no one saw who dropped me off. It's the same for quite a few of the girls. Though most of them lost their parents to long-term radiation and things like that, from the bombing and all that."

"So why are we going to the orphanage again?" His voice nearly hit the pitch of a whine.

She gave him a warning look before replying, "We're going there to meet Mother Superior."

"But why? I know a lot about magic and faeries..."

Deirdre considered telling him about the broken twig, teacup, and tires, but again thought better of it. "She's from Iceland; they have a different relationship with faeries there than we do."

"Are there a lot of them there?"

"Not really... She said other countries don't have as many faeries as England and Scotland do, because the two Courts are here. All the faeries in those other countries are weaker too. But anyway, they've always got along well with them in Iceland. I think she'll know a lot about them that we should know before we head toward the Summer Court. Maybe she'll tell us all we need to know about faeries, and we won't even have to go to the Court!"

James frowned. "What about your parents?"

"Well, maybe she'll know something more about them she didn't tell me."

"Well, you're not English. They could have been Irish Travellers or from some small Scottish clan. Or maybe faery cultists, or maybe they were related to farmers. All those people were deported from Neo-London before you or I were born. The Roma and Welsh were also driven out too," he added as an apparent afterthought.

"Roma?" she asked, looking back at him.

"Uh, Gypsies."

"Oooh, right. We had some of those in the town near us; they came and went." She frowned. "Now that you mention it, I didn't see any in the city. That explains it."

"Right, but I was thinking... since that faery said to look for the faery Court, maybe you're related to the faery cultists."

She made a face. Cultists? That sounds awful! But maybe that'd explain what happened, with the twig and cup and all... why I felt so strange the same time each of those things happened... maybe it is some sort of family curse! Ugh, that'd be horrible! Why would my parents do something like that?

As she grew angrier, she realized that her blood was thundering in her ears again. Her hands were growing warm, and she was suddenly aware of each pulsation within her veins.

Shuddering, trying to shake off the feeling, she snapped at James, "No, that's not it! That doesn't sound right." James looked as though he wished to argue the point further, so she changed the subject quickly, asking, "And what about your family? Do you have family outside the city?"

"I... I'm not sure." He shrugged.

She thought of Iain and how impolite and rough he was, then remembered his connection to Elaine. Then she recalled how James had been looking behind them anxiously up until they went off-road.

"James... Are you running away from home?"

"No! I... just always wanted to go out and explore, you know, see everything for myself." He gestured at the trees, tall grass, and sky all around them. "This might be the only chance I've got."

"So you're just going out here to explore? Can't you do that when you're an adult?"

James shook his head. "No way. Adults don't go exploring... They never do anything they really want to."

Deirdre just barely stopped herself from prying further or scolding him by remembering how Sister Margaret had warned her how little freedom young women have in the city. She had been right, painfully right.

I thought the older you got, the freer you were supposed to be... Sighing, she scratched the back of her head. But James JUST wants to explore? That's it? He's so smart, wouldn't he have some sort of goal in mind? This seems weird...

She puzzled over it for a while but was unable to find any sort of plausible answer. The only thing she was certain of was that it was dangerous and silly for James to be wandering around alone. But she felt certain she couldn't dissuade him.

Deciding to worry about it later, she grinned at him and said, "Let's hurry it up; we'll want to get to wherever we're stopping for the night on time." Then she set a faster pace, leaving her concerns behind.

* * *

James found himself struggling to keep up with Deirdre's steady pace, especially when the terrain slowly became rockier as they strayed from farmed, inhabited areas. To his dismay, sweat began to bead on the back of his neck, and he soon became breathless. He hadn't thought it would be much different, in terms of physical strain, than walking in the city. As long as Deirdre didn't ask him if he was all right, he could maintain his pride.

Must be all these hills...

All the while, even while taking in the beautiful landscape around him, James felt the presence of the mysterious letters in his backpack. The parchment was light in comparison to the books and items he'd packed, but they held a metaphorical weight he found difficult to ignore.

It seemed to James that there were so many things that no one wanted him to read, so many conversations kept from him out of fear he wouldn't understand, out of fear of truth. Banned books. Letters. Explanations. He was growing tired of being protected from knowledge.

If Mum never wanted us to read these letters, then there must be truth in them.

As eager as James was to read the letters, he had decided earlier on the journey to wait and read them when they stopped for camp or whenever he was next alone. In the past, Iain often pointed out to James that he never knew when to share information and when to keep it to himself. He had a tendency to overshare. But even James knew that he needed to keep the letters and his true mission private.

As they walked along, they began to hear the faint trickling and bubbling sounds of a stream nearby. When they neared the stream, a creature with sleek, dark fur slunk through the field in the distance, just on the other side. The animal peered at them, alerted to their presence. Its long snout twitched as it sniffed the air.

A fox!

He and Deirdre both stopped; he beamed, his worries forgotten for the time being. "I've only ever seen mangy city foxes, and they were all orange," James whispered. "This one's black as midnight."

"They used to hang around the town near us," Deirdre commented, not as softly. Then she chuckled. "There was this one elderly woman who used to feed them, like they were stray dogs. They make the silliest sounds, like an upset, yowling cat."

"My mum said they bring good luck, even though they're unclean." James began to slip past Deirdre, trying to get a better look. He carefully stretched one leg over the stream and then the other, only wobbling a little.

Deirdre hummed thoughtfully. "What do you mean, they aren't clean?"

James was about to answer when Deirdre snapped her fingers suddenly, loud enough to startle the fox into scurrying farther away from them. "Oh," she said, "is it because of your mother's religion? Are you Jewish?"

"She's, um, Christian." James left it at that, glancing away.

"But why would she think anything is unclean? That's not what God said in Acts. Hasn't she read it?"

James turned to look at her. "Of course she has. This is, uh, a completely different thing."

"What do you mean?"

He pursed his lips. "There are some things the gazhe are clueless about. Most things, actually."

"Gad-jay? What's that?"

Sighing loudly, he began to regret even bringing it up. "It means non-Roma. I forget that hardly anyone knows that."

"Oooh." Deirdre was quiet for a moment, then asked, "But why do you have to have some fancy word for it? Why don't you just say non-Roma? I mean, when Sister Margaret is mad at English people, she always just says 'Oh, those bloody Brits!' That way everyone can understand her..." She frowned. "Though Mother Superior always told her NOT to say that, but she still did it anyway. Maybe she should have used some sort of Scottish Gaelic word for 'English' or 'British.' But if she did, we'd all be confused every other history lesson. Sister Margaret taught British history." She looked at James expectantly.

James blinked, the wave of chatter stunning him briefly. He strained to remember what her first question had been. "Well, it's not like it's a nasty word. Anyway," he said with a proud smile as they began to walk across the field again, "plenty of Romani words from different dialects have made it into the English language. You might've used one without knowing it."

"Like what?"

"Well..." James thought for a moment and then pointed to Deirdre's hair. "Loli. That's red. And loli pobble—that's Romanichal—means red apple, like candied apple. It sounds quite a lot like lollipop, doesn't it?"

"Neat! But all lollipops aren't red."

James suppressed an eye-roll. He said nothing to avoid possibly snapping at her.

"Or, um, maybe originally lollipops were all red! So maybe that's why they used that word. That'd make sense!" Deirdre grinned at him, her eyebrows raised high.

"Yeah," he said without feeling. "That does make sense."

"Good!" She pumped her fist lightly, as if she had made some achievement. After half a minute of walking, she asked, "So what other Romani words do you know?"

"Not many," he admitted rather sheepishly. "Mum didn't teach us much. Just some basics." And a few swear words. "But I'd like to learn more someday."

"Hmm. Where would you even go to study that sort of thing?"

"Some universities used to teach it, I think. I dunno if they still do. They certainly wouldn't teach it in Neo-London."

"You could go to a Catholic university in Europe! They will have LOADS more to study than some place in Neo-London. I mean, that school there, that we were going to, that was super limited! And, I mean, I'm not really a great student and all... but it didn't look very good. Not much variety, not much, um, depth..." She frowned, searching for the right word. "It seemed pretty boring."

James felt his previous agitation fade as he met her gaze and replied eagerly, "I've been saying that for a while! Iain thinks any education is a good one, but I disagree. There's so much they don't teach you in the curriculum, so I've been studying different books on my own time."

He went to reach for his pack, only to remember that he hadn't brought his books and that he'd already shown her a few books the other day. "Iain and I can agree on one thing though, and that's that nothing competes with experience. Iain says that school teaches you important things but that it can't teach you about life. That's why I want to see everything for myself instead of listening to some teacher. That's why I'm out here."

"Ohh, that's why!" she exclaimed. "It's like a self-imposed field trip. That kind of makes sense."

"Uh, yeah..."

Deirdre nodded, curls bouncing. "Yep, experience is the best teacher. I mean, I can read stuff, and that's one thing, but there's nothing like experiencing it yourself!" Her expression abruptly sobered, and she stopped walking and asked, "And does Iain know you're out here?"

James stumbled over a stone in his path before coming to a halt. "Well," he said, a little louder than normal, "he probably knows by now."

James winced, realizing he'd been talking about his brother without even meaning to. It's just out of habit.

He wondered briefly if he should have told Iain he was leaving or at least have left him a note explaining why. He knew the gnawing ache of not knowing, of not having answers. He also knew Iain would forgive him when he came home. Iain could never stay mad at anyone for long. As for how much—or if—his father would care... he wasn't certain of anything.

Iain's made his choices, and I've had to live with them. He'll just have to live with mine now.

James chanced another glance at Deirdre, taking in her bright smile as she looked at something ahead of them. She seemed like an understanding, open person, unlike anyone he had met in the city. He decided right then that he liked her quite a lot.

"Should we get a move on?" James asked her.

"Let's take a break!" She strode past him, where another stream, this one too wide to just step over, was half-hidden under a bank.

"A break? Already?"

Deirdre did not seem to hear him as she plopped down on the other side of the stream on the bank and began unlacing her boots. She let out a sigh as she dunked her feet into the water and then began to hum to herself.

"What are you doing?" James asked.

Deirdre lolled her head to look backward at him. "It's relaxing!"

He looked at the stream, thinking she had no idea where it came from. "It might be dirty."

She laughed shamelessly at him. "You really are a city boy!"

Iain was right... She is a country hick!

James declined her offer to sit and soak his feet for a bit and went a little way off, thinking that this was a good opportunity to read one of the letters.

He found a patch of short grass and sat down cross-legged, shrugging off his backpack and rummaging through it for the letters. He took one and smoothed it out against his knee.

He flipped the envelope over and opened it, sliding the letter out. There were three small folded pages with neat writing on each side written in dark ink. The words were scratchy, like they were written with a fountain pen. For the first time in James's life, he hesitated to read.

They're just words.

Sitting up straighter and taking in a deep breath, James unfolded the pages and started to read, hands trembling. Or at least attempted to read. He squinted at the letter an embarrassingly long time before he realized the words were of a different language. He barely recognized any words, save for what Mum had taught him when he was younger. James didn't let it shake him; if anything, it only made him more determined.

You can work this out. You can think of something. Just try to remember what you know. Just—

"Thank you, Marko!" James grinned, nearly slumping over in relief when he saw a crudely drawn smiley face drawn on the bottom of the first page, along with an arrow that led him to flip the paper over. On the back of the letter, Marko had written an English translation. It read:

Marko, I hope this letter finds you well. Do not ask where I am, because I will not tell you. All I can say is that I am being taken care of enough so that I am able to write this letter, and I am supplied with parchment and ink.

James took his time scouring the writing, taking in each word. When he flipped the page over again after the finishing the first paragraph, the writing looked like his mother's handwriting for certain. She'd drawn little doodles like a border around the writing: little rabbits, foxes, and cats. She'd always liked to draw even if she didn't think she was very skilled at it. James brushed his thumb over one of the cats, smiling faintly.

Continuing to read, James began to skim over a few parts where she was asking about Iain, their father, and him, how they were faring. None of it told James what he wanted to know, so he did not linger on the words.

You asked me how I knew Jal was marked, if I'd known instinctually? If you are so curious, a faery told me.

James stared, his lips moving soundlessly as he read over it again. His mouth was dry, and the air around him seemed to still. Marked? What does that mean?

A little goblin woman brought in a poor mutt dog to me to mend its wounded paw. Get this: when I told her I only treated humans, she had the nerve to ask me what the difference was! If I hadn't sworn an oath, I might have slapped her.

I treated the dog as best I could and meant to send her on her way. She asked what payment I took, and I told her she owed me nothing. She looked relieved and told me she had no money. She instead offered me a reading. The faery said she had a simple spell to see my family and romance connections and bring me good advice based on the reading.

Normally, I would have refused instantly... but I admit I was weak and foolish. I had my suspicions about my husband, which turned out to be unfounded. Things had changed between us, and I thought there had to be someone else. I was weak. If that makes me marhime, well, I knew what I was doing, and I do not regret it.

After she performed the spell, her black eyes were full of such sadness. When I asked what she'd seen, she took my hands and said something I have heard echoing in my head every moment since: I looked at your family tree, and darkness had devoured a branch. Your second born has been marked by dark magic. Something evil has claimed him.

James's eyes darted too quickly over the page, dizzily. His fingers shook as he underlined the words, reading through it over and over again, trying to make sense of something senseless. His chest tightened.

Dark magic. Marked by dark magic.

James forced himself to read on, confident that all would be explained.

Evil? What is evil to a being with such a strange moral code? I asked her what she meant, but that was all she knew. She told me I needed to find a faery that could tell me if someone had made a deal or blood pact for my son's life, if it was as she thought. I didn't want to believe her, but I knew she was telling the truth, woman to woman. I went to see my family, but they were as helpful as they usually are.

For a moment James forgot where he was until he felt the field grass brush against his arms as a light breeze rolled through and ruffled his hair and cooled the perspiration that was beading on his skin. He was back home. Or maybe he only wished he was back home.

Iain would know what to say. He would know what to do.

James curled his fingers tightly, his nails biting into his palms. But Iain wasn't there, and he wasn't going to be there, and even if he was, James was not sure Iain would even believe the truth that lay coiled in ink, soaked in the parchment.

James read over the last page, hopeful that some explanation waited for him there.

I have a photograph of Brishen and Jal together. Brishen and I had been baking in the kitchen all day when it happened. Jal was around four years old at the time, and he'd been pouting because I wouldn't let him help. I couldn't be watching him constantly to make sure he did everything properly. He tried to help anyway and ended up pouring the entire bag of flour over his head. Of course, he burst into tears instantly. He only stopped when Brishen took a handful of flour and dumped it on his own head to make Jal laugh. So I have a photo of two smiling, white-haired boys. They are worth all this. That is why I will not tell you where I am.

James wilted. He remembered that day, vaguely. He remembered Mum taking the photograph and then taking it to church and showing it to all the women in her group. But the memory did nothing to soothe him, and it did nothing to answer his questions. It was useless.

Just think it through, James told himself sternly. Treat it like a puzzle, a problem. Start with what you know for certain, and work from there. You can work this out. If he could imagine that the letter was about someone else, written by another's hand, then he knew he could use reasoning and logic to figure it out.

"—James?"

James jolted, dropping the letter in his lap. He looked up to see Deirdre standing over him, the ends of her long hair nearly brushing his face as she leaned down and tilted her head to see what he was reading.

"We should get going while we still have daylight left!" she said, gesturing for him to get moving.

"Uh, right—" James fumbled with the letter clumsily, shoving it back into his bag carelessly, his hands like lead and his heart pounding furiously. "Right."

Deirdre set the pace again, walking ahead of him. She chattered on as usual, but James found it difficult to focus on anything she was saying. Occasionally she'd laugh at something she said and then twist around to see if he'd found it as funny.

As open as she'd been with him thus far and as accepting of everything he'd told her like no one else, James could not be certain she would be as accepting if she found out what he knew now. He was marked by dark magic. James had no idea what that meant; all he knew was that, even now that he was far from the constricting city walls, he felt more trapped than ever.

This doesn't change anything. Words don't change anything. I'm still the same as I was before, James reasoned with himself, standing up straighter.

Resolved, he caught up to Deirdre as best he could. He was determined to put the letter's contents aside for now until he could study them further and focus instead on where they were going next. There was still an issue he needed to address, and it was more pressing than a vague mention of dark magic.

"Um, about the orphanage," James piped up. "When we get there, I think it'll be best if I wait outside."

"Why?" Deirdre asked.

James had been hoping she would just leave it at that. He could not tell her that his father owned the building and that he might be recognized and told on by one of the Mothers or Sisters. "Because—because, you know, there are, um, girls there," James rambled, making up an excuse on the fly. "It might be, um, inappropriate."

Deirdre's covering her mouth did little to stifle her burst of laughter. "Yes, they might infect you with their girl germs!" She made a playful growling noise and swiped at him with clawed hands.

James felt his face warm. He wanted to retort with something witty but found he was too embarrassed to think of anything. "Regardless," he huffed, "I'll be staying outside."

Deirdre was still giggling to herself, and she reached over and quickly ruffled his hair before he could push her away. "Whatever you say, Mr. Germs."

* * *

The scenery rushed and bounced past in a blur as the military truck thundered down the dirt road. The vehicle left a swirling trail of dust in its wake. From either side of the road, birds burst out of the tall grasses and foliage, scattering into the sky. Iain sat in the passenger's seat, gazing out the window, scanning for any human shapes, and currently avoiding any kind of contact with the man in the driver's seat: Commander Philip Prance.

"They can't have gone far," Philip said brightly over the sound of the massive truck tires crunching over gravel. "I imagine we'll catch up to them very soon. We'll head over to the nearest town and ask about."

"If they even took the road." Iain shaded his eyes from the sun, leaning his head out the open window to get a better look. Had he not been so focused on finding his brother, he might have enjoyed how refreshing the breeze felt.

"Huh. That's not bad thinking there, Callaghan." He sounded mildly impressed. "If I were a faery that's been trapped in a city for a few days, I'd be right eager to stretch my legs out in these fields, get some fresh air."

The countryside before them was expansive, seemingly unending. "How will we know which way they're headed?" It seemed almost hopeless, the idea of finding James and Deirdre out there. Iain knew it didn't really matter how difficult the search would be; he would find James regardless. He'd never stop searching.

"There are ways to track 'em."

After realizing he had no reason to keep information from Philip, Iain told him about their latest visit to Ferriers Town and how Deirdre had her fortune told, what had been said. There were still too many variables, too many things that made little sense, so Iain shared the only solid piece of information he had: "Which direction leads to the Summer Court?"

"That's to the north." As an afterthought, Philip said, "Why would the banshee tell an Unseelie faery to go to the Summer Court anyhow?"

Iain shrugged. It made no sense, but it didn't have to. He had orders, regardless of whether or not the pieces of knowledge he had clicked perfectly together. "North then," Iain said. "That's the direction we'll go."

"Oi, you can't give me orders, Callaghan," Philip said, feigning insult. "I say where we go, and I say we head north."

They parked the truck on the side of the road, nearly in the grass (after a farm tractor couldn't pass them and the driver began hollering and making rude hand gestures). As Iain shouldered his backpack, Philip walked up to him and thrust a sidearm at him.

"We're not going to bloody shoot her, are we?" Iain exclaimed, unsettled by the very idea. Faery or not, she was still just a teenager. He'd never been comfortable with shooting a gun during training. He was always more adept at close range, hand-to-hand combat.

"Good Lord, no." Philip scoffed, giving Iain a hard slap on the back. "But you never know what kind of creatures you'll encounter out here, especially once evening rolls around. You remember the beast that wound up outside the walls a couple of days ago?"

Iain remembered but still stared at the weapon for a moment before holstering it on his belt. Philip then held up his pair of iron handcuffs and suggested that Iain keep his on him as well.

"That'll do it," Iain murmured to himself, patting the cuffs on his belt.

Philip and Iain had not been traveling off-road long before they came across telling signs that someone had crossed the same path before them. There were tread marks from two pairs of shoes in the muddier parts of the field. Philip found a receipt from a library book on different types of edible plants.

Iain began to pick up the pace, going ahead of Philip, feeling confident that he'd find James within the hour. He'd find James, and whoever orchestrated the assassination of King Eadred would be brought to justice, and the military would relinquish power back to the government, and everything would be just as it was before. If he could just find James, he could forget about all that he'd seen. If he could just find James...

He began to go over his training in his head. It had been a while since he'd shot a gun, so he began to mentally disassemble the weapon like he had every day to clean the parts and assemble it again. He thought about the various ways they were taught to deal with different types of Fae. Iron was a safe choice for nearly anything, unless it was one of the ancient Fae. In that case, it was best to run or try to confuse it...

"Oi, Callaghan."

Did James even know how to defend himself? He would be helpless against most Fae. He certainly had no iron on him. He was helpless against a faery like Deirdre.

I should have warned him. I should have taught him better.

"Callaghan!"

Iain jolted as Philip grabbed him by the shoulder from behind. Philip was struggling to keep up with his pace.

"What?" Iain asked, disoriented. He hadn't heard Philip calling him.

"You... you all right, Callaghan?" Philip stared at Iain like he had suddenly sprouted little pixie wings from his back. "You look..."

"I'm fine."

Philip moistened his lips. "We'll find your brother and get him back home soon."

"I know."

After a few minutes of walking in silence, Philip spoke up again. "You know, the Irish have always had the right idea about the fair folk. We left them alone, but it was done so with mutual respect. And when we did cross paths, it was either something beautiful that you'd never forget or something that put you back in your place. I'd like things to go back to that, myself."

"You and my father have very different ideas," Iain pointed out conversationally.

"I'm starting to figure that out too. Only, I hope I haven't learned it too late, Callaghan." When Philip sighed, Iain turned to look at him, slowing his pace somewhat. Philip's head was lowered, and his usual smile was absent. "I'm not the brightest man. Not like you anyway."

Iain's mouth hardened into a thin line.

"I'm not insulting you," Philip clarified. He chuckled. "You forget which brother you're talking to."

Iain pressed onward. "You've forgotten too."

"Yes, your brother has his books and his grades. I'm talking about instinct. You get a good read on people."

"Not always." Iain thought of Elaine and distractedly rubbed the back of his neck.

After thinking on it more, Philip added, "Aye, not always though. You are a man. Most of us aren't immune to going against our warning instincts for the sake of other, less selective ones in the name of love."

Iain managed a laugh. He didn't think love was exactly what Prance meant.

Wanting to change the subject, he asked, "What do you mean, you might be too late?"

"I'd say there's no 'might' about it. There's not much we can do after what happened today, now that General Callaghan is in charge. I'm too daft to make any sense of it. All I know is he's got Boyd involved. Earlier today when I left the parade to go break up a fight? There wasn't no fight. Boyd called it in, but there was nothing there. I think he meant to get me away from the attack. And he's been talking strangely, about how things are finally going to change for the better, how General Callaghan was going to take over and eliminate the Fae from Neo-London. It was like he knew all this would happen."

Iain felt cold. "You're accusing my father of treason," he stated with a calmness that surprised even him. He was calm, he realized, because he did not believe it was true. "Do you have proof?"

"I don't have solid proof yet of just how much General Callaghan was involved in the attack, but I know for a fact that he has been involved in illegal activities for some years now—working outside the military."

While the accusations sounded like the ravings of a mad man, Iain had always known Philip to be a simple but clearheaded man. And he wasn't a liar. He knew what liars sounded like. Still, the fact remained that Philip wanted something, or he wouldn't be telling him any of this.

Iain narrowed his eyes and hunched his shoulders against the wind. "You've known about these illegal activities. Why not report him sooner?"

"He—" Philip cleared his throat, pausing. "Ah, damn. This is hard to say."

Iain realized with a jolt that Philip was trying to collect himself. He kept busy by picking up a rock from the ground and tossing it as far as he could, pretending not to notice.

"General Callaghan knew my family back when they were still running the Underground of the city, back when the Dearg-dues were still a feared name. He told me he worked with them for a while as a liaison with the Wardens, kept them out of prison while they ran the streets and intimidated the people he wanted silenced. General Callaghan betrayed them eventually, handed them over to the Wardens, and made certain they were executed on site."

It sounded as if Philip was describing someone else entirely. General Callaghan would never break a law or work outside the military with thugs like the mob or plot against his king and government. His father had always put his country, his city, and the people in it above everything else.

"I owe him for that," Philip said firmly. "Thanks to your father, my brother and I grew up away from all that violence my family was involved in. Life for us before your father was rough, and it was ugly. I made it out okay, but Boyd never recovered."

Iain's mind began working furiously, dizzyingly. The sun was too bright in his eyes. He pushed himself harder, walking faster.

Just find James. Find James.

Philip went on uncertainly, sounding more like he was ranting to himself than to Iain. "Boyd threw himself into his work, into your father's ideology. I don't blame him for that. I don't think you'd blame your brother either. See, I think if Boyd can just start to see things clearly, maybe all this can be resolved. General Callaghan needs to be investigated. Maybe when we get back, I can enlist your help. That's part of the reason why I volunteered myself for this mission, to talk to you—"

Iain halted midstride. "What do you get out of dragging me into this, Commander? You said yourself you don't even have solid proof."

Why is this all happening now, just when things were starting to be all right again?

Iain had started to picture how things would be for them in the future, once he and James had moved out. Iain would fix up the house for his father. He and James would visit their father now and then, and things between them would no longer be fraught with tension and old wounds. James would finish school and go on to university, prove everyone wrong. He could see it all so clearly, and while the reality of it would never be how he truly wanted it, it would be enough. Just enough. He could keep the only family he had left together.

That's how Mum would've wanted it.

"I'm not trying to get anything. It's our duty to speak up if something illegal is going on."

"And your pitting me against my father has got nothing to do with you and Boyd?" Iain smiled mirthlessly. "Almost everyone's got an agenda, Prance."

Philip gaped at him. "If anyone's been pitting anyone against anyone, it's your father. He's pit us against you and your brother since he took us under his wing. Lying to us, hiding things. You've got to know he's manipulating all of us. Especially you and Boyd."

"So my dad told you what to say, yeah? He told Boyd what slur to call my brother and me? He told you not to stop Boyd from giving me a beating?"

Philip was silent for a long moment. "Not outright. But he knew what was going on, and he encouraged it."

Iain shook his head. Philip was wrong.

If Dad knew what Boyd was doing, he would have put a stop to it. He would have cared.

"See, me, I make my own mistakes," Iain explained calmly. "It wasn't my father who told me to hate you. He didn't have to. I just did. No one ever had to tell me to screw up, and I don't blame anyone but myself, got it?"

"That's it then? You just can't be bothered now? You know he's up to something."

"You said you don't know anything for certain. I need more evidence than just your word before I start calling my father a traitor."

"You've got evidence already. What's your gut telling you?"

Iain couldn't trust his instincts anymore.

"You don't give people much reason to like you, Iain, but I know you care on some level." Philip exhaled sharply. He sounded defeated. "Maybe my instincts were wrong again."

"Probably, yeah."

"I don't think I'm wrong about you."

Iain just glared back at him, when his foot caught on something solid and he pitched forward onto the ground. He landed hard on his stomach. He groaned, climbing to his feet again, unhurt but his hands muddied.

"What tripped you?" Philip asked. There was a faint smile in his voice, and he no doubt enjoyed seeing Iain face-plant.

"Nothing tripped me," Iain replied slyly, wiping his hands off. "I make my own mistakes, remember?"

He nudged at whatever he fell over with the toe of his boot. It was a plank of wood that must have belonged to a fence of some kind. It was completely splintered in some places, like something huge had struck it. He couldn't think of anything natural that could have caused it.

"What the hell could've done that?" Philip asked, as if reading Iain's thoughts.

"Dévla!" Iain suddenly noticed the foul stench that was emanating from the surrounding area. He covered his nose in the crook of his elbow and went to investigate.

"Whatever did that to the fence must have done this too." Philip pointed out a dead sheep—or at least that's what it might have looked like once—that was completely rent apart a few paces ahead of them. Among the redness, a few of its curly white hairs ruffled in the breeze, carrying with it a powerful scent.

"Good thing I didn't fall in that, yeah?"

"Good thing you're a bloody oaf, Callaghan, or we might not have noticed it."

Iain chuckled.

A sound reached their ears. It was almost like the whistling of wind, the way Iain recalled the train sounding when it rocketed through the concrete tunnel on his rout to work. He expected to feel a breeze that might cool the sweat that had beaded on the back of his neck, but none came. Nothing but still air.

Philip's hand went to his own gun holster. "Let's keep moving."

Iain nodded in agreement. "Yes, Commander."

Chapter Fifteen

As it grew darker, they selected a camping area on James's map and went off course slightly to reach it. Deirdre was beginning to tire, and her stomach grumbled loudly. Quiet for the past hour, James trudged behind her, his head down, looking defeated by the day's exercise.

"We'll be there in a few minutes," she said, giving him an encouraging smile. He didn't respond but kept walking.

They were following a deer trail between two groves of trees when suddenly the birds shot up from the branches around them, beating their wings fast into the sky, crying out in alarm. They both stopped, looking around.

"Do you see anything?" James asked, sidling beside her.

She shook her head and was about to reply when the ground shook hard beneath them, knocking them both off their feet. Immediately she pushed herself up, her gaze darting up and down, searching through the darkening groves.

The ground shook again, but this time they were ready; they both got to their feet, and Deirdre tugged on James's shirt for him to follow her. Staying low, they continued down the narrow path, both alert as hunted rabbits.

Once again the earth shuddered, making them stagger.

"What is going on? What's happening? This can't be an earthquake," James began to ramble in a hoarse whisper. "It could be a giant monster or something with earth-shaking magic or—"

"James." Deirdre grabbed his shoulder hard, nodding up above the nearest tree, her mouth a grim line.

He followed her gaze and gasped.

Behind the nearest tree was what first looked like a gigantic, grey-green boulder, thick as five trees. But through the leafy branches a gigantic, single eye looked at them. The eye was humanoid save for its size and deep bloodshot color, and it stared at them without blinking. The rest of the face was hidden.

James was gibbering, perhaps trying to guess what it was but falling short of pronouncing anything clearly. They were frozen as the eye considered them, looking from one to the other.

Then it shifted, and they heard a low growl as the eye rose up higher, narrowing slightly, fixed on them.

Run. Deirdre willed her frozen legs. We need to run. Run. Run...

Then the eye stopped and there was a slow sniffing sound. It continued on for nearly half a minute, the pupil of the eye looking away and around, an invisible nose loudly smelling the breeze.

Then, without another glance at them, the eyeball disappeared and the ground shook again and again. With each stomp, the hidden giant moved farther and farther away, the clomping and sniffing fading off into the distance.

"W-w-what was that?" James finally gasped. "Was that... what..."

"A..." Deirdre gulped. "It was a giant or something, I guess. And it didn't seem to be all that interested in us." She giggled hysterically. "Lucky us!"

"It could have been a giant. But wasn't it a bit small? And there aren't many giants." James rambled on, "Probably it was something else, like a Red Cap or troll or a Fachan, or maybe..."

"A Fachan? Fachans come down this far? I thought they were only in Scotland."

James nodded; some color was coming back into his cheeks as he talked. "They used to just be up there, but they and other Winter Court creatures have been coming farther and farther down south. I think the Court sends them. I heard my father talking about it once." He shivered. "Should we... What are we going to do?"

"Well"—she pointed a shaking finger—"the campsite is opposite where the... whatever it was, was headed. I think we'll stick with our plan and go there."

"Really? What if it comes back?"

"The campsite was elevated, right? Up on a hill? We'd see it coming, and since we're sleeping on the ground, we'd hear it coming. And besides," she continued with more confidence than she felt, "it didn't seem all that interested in us. I don't think we need to worry about it!"

James seemed skeptical but assured by her confidence. He continued to ramble about Winter Court-related creatures as they started to walk, though he kept his voice low.

In a matter of minutes they reached the campsite. It was a raised area near thick, short rows of trees to the west and a cliff to the east. The ground was not rocky, but there was no high, tall grass or other insect-attracting greenery.

Below the cliff was a wide, recently abandoned field with only a rusty tractor remaining standing like the last sentinel of the land. In one corner, James spotted an old well; Deirdre sent him to investigate while she began to prepare their bedding. She collected pine needles from the nearby line of trees and cut up moss to use as padding and extra insulation, if needed. She also began to stock up a pile for kindling for a fire.

James came back just as she was clearing and scooping out a shallow fire pit. "Was there any water down it?" she asked, looking up at him.

He held up a full bucket as an answer. She stood up and took it; it looked clear, so she tasted it quickly. It was delicious and cold, almost identical to the well water near the orphanage in mineral and taste.

"Is it bad?" he asked.

"No, it's great! And it tastes just like the water from the orphanage. We'll use it tonight and tomorrow. We really are close, aren't we?"

He nodded, then looked past her, his eyes lighting up like it was Christmas morning. "Are you building a fire? Can I do it? I've read all about it!"

She hesitated. "I guess so, but do you have matches?"

He shook his head and immediately began to explain (once again) everything he knew about starting a fire using a hand drill. She barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes.

"Just use this." She went to her pack and pulled out the flint and handed him her steel fire starter. "I'll get the bedding ready while you do that, okay?"

She barely took her eyes off James as he proceeded to follow the guidelines in his book to prepare a fire in the slowest and most complicated way possible. Once she spoke up with a suggestion, only for him to snap that he knew what he was doing. So she kept her mouth shut, watching to make sure he didn't somehow set the campsite ablaze.

About ten minutes in, Deirdre could tell he was panicking. His choice of tinder was poor and, after losing the third spark, turned his anger toward the book, throwing it onto the ground.

Giggling at his outburst, Deirdre picked up the book and felt the paper. It was rough, not very good quality, similar to a newspaper. She tore out a page, the sound catching James's attention. Although he had previously slammed the book on the ground, the act of desecrating it in that way clearly horrified him, stunning him into silence as she helped him grow the next spark into a flame, shuffling out his poor tinder and adding the rough pages.

Within minutes they had a fire started, with kindling added, growing up into a strong flame. They sat back, watching it for a moment. She handed James a dry twig from her pile, and he carefully tossed it in.

"Well." She held up the book, which was much thinner than earlier. "And here I thought this book was rubbish, but I was wrong. It really is useful!"

James unexpectedly snort-laughed, which made her burst into giggles. She kept laughing, loudly, all her nerves that had been bundled up immediately loosening. James was laughing too, though she kept chuckling uncontrollably long after he stopped.

James was sitting cross-legged on the ground, flipping through one of his books while Deirdre scoured the area for edible mushrooms (finding none), when he asked with an edge to his voice, "Say, Deirdre, you didn't happen to use any other books for kindling, did you?"

"No. Just the one," Deirdre said, giggling again. She tilted her head, trying to catch a glimpse of the title of the book he was holding. It looked quite old.

James did not seem to hear her. He began leafing through the pages more and more frantically. "It... it wasn't like this before. There are pages missing. Torn out. How did—" He halted, his mouth forming a hard line. He looked up from the book calmly. "He must have ripped the pages out."

"Who?" Deirdre asked. "Your brother?"

James shook his head. "My father. He found it in my room." He glanced at the ground, lowering his voice. "He doesn't think anyone should be allowed to read books on faeries or magic or anything interesting, really."

Deirdre frowned. She had not heard James mention his father before. "Why is that? The nuns allowed us to read all kinds of books that referenced faeries and elves and magic. They thought it was mostly harmless."

James did not answer for a while, his expression pinched in concentration. "There must have been something he didn't want me to read," James said faintly, more to himself than to her. "But what?"

"Oh. Like something improper?" Deirdre asked, wide-eyed.

"No. The nymph page is still here. I checked." When Deirdre opened her mouth to ask what he meant, James said hurriedly, "Forget it."

Suddenly perking his head up, James flipped to the first few pages. He growled in frustration. "Of course he took the table of contents as well, so I can't know what I don't know!"

"What?" Deirdre blinked.

"It probably wouldn't have helped me anyway." James tossed the book aside. When she tried to press James further about his father, he began only replying in shrugs or vague grunts. She eventually gave up.

After a while, they began to work on their sleeping arrangements, one on each side of the fire. Deirdre took the slightly sloped spot that would be unsettling for first-time campers.

"This doesn't look so bad." James spoke up, looking down proudly at his arranged bedding of pine needles, moss, and a thin towel he had brought with him.

"It won't be nearly as comfortable as a bed," Deirdre warned.

"Well, yes, of course." His tone implied that that was obvious.

She didn't reply that, no matter how well-informed the girls she took out camping were or how many times she warned them they would be uncomfortable at some point in the night, they always sat up from their blankets or sleeping bags at least once and whined at her, "This isn't anything like my bed!"

She wiped a bit of dirt from the moss she was going to cover and use as a pillow, feeling the soft texture on her fingers. Remembering how hot her hands got when the tires were ruined, the teacup broke, and the twig snapped, she let the moss go.

Maybe it's all some big mistake, she thought, biting down hard on her bottom lip. And if it wasn't... Mother Superior should have answers tomorrow. And if she doesn't know...

"Is something wrong?"

Realizing she was glaring down at her moss pillow, Deirdre met James's eye and smiled. "Just thinking that... if I can't find out what I need to tomorrow, it'd be interesting to find my parents, get some answers about everything that's ever been weird about me." She laughed, wiping the dirt off her hands. "That'll take a while to sort out!"

"You're not weird," James said kindly, though he hesitated a second before saying so. "I think I can relate a little. But, uh, maybe everyone feels that way sometimes."

"Oh, no, I am weird. I never really fit in with the other girls, especially once they started growing up and becoming teenagers. I don't know why. But again, maybe it's something that runs in my family or something."

After looking at the fire for a moment, his expression serious, James looked up at her again, saying, "I understand. See"—he gulped—"I'm not out here to just explore. I mean, that's part of it, but I also want to find my mother."

"Your mother?"

"Yeah. She left years ago, maybe to go be with her family, but... we never heard from her again."

"Oh..." Even though the news about his mother was awful, Deirdre felt extremely relieved. He wasn't just out here wandering and searching, trying to find learning experiences. He actually had a solid goal in mind.

"I figured out where Mum's family settled based on where she said she was going when she left. If I can find her family, maybe I can find where she went from there."

"So you DO have family outside the city!" She pointed at him. "You said you didn't earlier!"

"Well, we haven't really met them." James looked at the fire. "Iain always said we'd go and find her, but..." He shook his head, his voice a bit bitter as he continued, "I guess he changed his mind. But I didn't. I still want to find her, find out what happened. And also... just see her again."

"I see." The unknown monster from earlier flitting back into her mind, she continued, "I'll come with you, James! Even if I don't need to find my family... even if I find what I need at the orphanage tomorrow, I'll help you find your mum!"

James looked at her and smiled. "And I'll help you find yours if you decide you want to. I swear it."

Deirdre smiled back at him. She settled down on her makeshift bed, relaxed, her hands behind her head. "Why haven't you ever met your family?"

"Well," James said, "they've never wanted to know us. It's complicated."

"Why is that?"

"My mum said it was because she married a gazho my father. Bit of a poor trade-off, if you ask me."

Deirdre thought about scolding him, unused to hearing anyone disrespect his or her parents before, but decided to let him keep speaking instead. After all, she reflected with a sad sinking of her heart, she really didn't know that much about what it was really like to be in a family.

James sat up a little, his brow creasing. "I guess I am running away from home. I just didn't realize it until now. Huh." This realization seemed to trouble him. He looked to Deirdre as if for confirmation or answers, trying to figure out what he was feeling. "I think I should feel bad, but I don't. I'm just glad I did it."

"Was it really all that bad? Your father and brother?" she couldn't help but ask, sitting back up. "Was your home really that bad?"

James shrugged, then reclined on his elbows and glanced up at the sky. "No," he said quickly. Then he admitted, "Yeah. Sometimes. But it isn't about that. I don't want to be stuck like they are. I don't want to accept things how they are or ignore everything. I'm not... like my brother and father at all. I used to want to be like my brother. I thought he was so cool, and I thought he was going to get out or something. But he just takes crap from everyone. Nothing changes." James's smile was faint and wry. "I think I'm meant for more, is all."

"Like your life's calling? You think you're meant to live and work outside the city?"

He nodded slowly. "Something like that, I guess. More like... um, destiny or fate or something like that."

"Hmmm." Deirdre settled back down. "I've never thought much about all that sort of thing. Is it like, why did the monster today not attack us? Why are we still alive, for what purpose? That sort of thing?"

Looking a bit sick at the reminder of the unknown creature, James just shrugged.

"Well, monsters or not, we'll just keep on moving. And we'll find your mother!"

"Yeah," James agreed with a smile. "And whatever else is out there waiting for us to find it."

* * *

The air had grown cooler as evening loomed closer. The sky was beginning to yellow and bleed slowly into orange when Philip decided they would camp for the night and pick up the trail at dawn. Iain had wanted to protest and keep pushing through until they found James, but he did not want to risk being accused of misconduct or defying orders. As open and practically chummy as Philip had been earlier, Iain suspected that the hierarchy was back in place, and formality was to be respected. And he had to admit he was glad of that.

Iain deftly set up camp that fit the guidelines for a situation such as this: simplistic sleeping arrangements on the ground, adequate coverage and camouflage, and no fire. Fire was known to attract certain kinds of Fae. If they needed a light, they would simply use a small headlamp with a red lens.

Philip sat with his back against one of the only trees in the clearing, watching Iain and occasionally making helpful comments as Iain finished setting up camp. When Iain stopped to take a drink from his canteen, Philip said, "You never let on."

Iain wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "Never let on what, Commander?"

"That anything got to you." He glanced down at the radio in his lap, fiddling for a moment with the antenna absently. Then he set the radio aside and stood to his feet. "It always seemed, no matter what Boyd said or did to you, you couldn't have cared less. You never let on otherwise."

Philip's face told Iain everything he needed to know. He was feeling guilty, for whatever reason. It was baffling to Iain as to why, now, this seemed to matter so much to him. They were both adults now.

Iain wanted to explain that it wouldn't have made a difference if he had let on, that it would only have made him an easier target. Perhaps if he had shown weakness or if he'd complained, Philip might've stepped in, but it would've given Boyd satisfaction. He'd rather have the Prance brothers think of him as something inhuman, incapable of feeling hurt, than give them any satisfaction from him. Eventually he began to believe the same of himself. Eventually he really didn't care. And it was better that way, easier.

"Nothing gets to me." Iain met Philip's gaze evenly.

Philip nodded once like he understood, and his posture relaxed with visible ease. Assuaging his guilt felt like the right thing to do. For some reason Iain didn't want Philip to feel guilty.

It will also get him off my back.

Iain began opening their military approved, ready-to-eat meals with great disdain. Apparently he had been grumbling quite a bit under his breath, because Philip scoffed at him. "Never met anyone as picky about food as you, Callaghan. You fussy, fussy man."

"This isn't food. Food has flavor."

"I like my food bland and boiled like every other Irishman." Philip laughed. "I can always tell when you've been cooking, aye? My eyes burn when I walk in your house from all the flavor."

Iain held back a grin with difficulty. He prepared the meals in silence (waiting awkwardly while the heating pack warmed their food) and handed Philip his meal first, wanting to delay the inevitable.

"What d'you think? Pork?" Philip asked quizzically, chewing on one piece of meat for a solid minute.

"Your guess is as good as mine. But check out the sauce." He made a show of holding the bag upside down and acting like he was performing a feat of magic when the sluggish liquid didn't slide out of the bag, but remained plastered to it like concrete.

"Think they're trying to kill us?" Philip asked.

"Could be."

Minutes passed without another word as they finished their meals and cleaned up. Iain became aware of the rising and falling chorus from insects all around them and the stars that began to appear faintly in the darkening sky. It had been rainy every night he'd been camping out for basic training, so he'd never seen the stars as numerous and clear as they were now. It was quite beautiful.

"I can take first watch, if you like," Philip said.

Iain suppressed a shudder as the image of the sheep flashed into his mind again, and he remembered why they needed to keep watch in the first place. "What do you think ripped apart that sheep like that?" he asked.

Philip shook his head. "It could've been a number of things. Lots of animals or Fae creatures like to tear things up. There's been a rise in monster sightings and incidents in the country near Neo-London in recent years. Bloody devils."

"Like the wolf outside of the walls." Iain leaned back on his elbows, letting out a breathy laugh. "Boyd took that monster out all by himself, did he?"

"Tall tales." Philip chuckled, in on the joke. "It took at least three units to bring it down." Philip added, "Could've been you out there too, you know. I thought you were going to join up with the infantry. Then you wouldn't be stuck working under me, eh?"

Iain stretched out on his back. The ground was cool and slightly damp against his back and smelled of rich earth. "Well, when you put it that way..."

"Why'd you change your mind anyway?"

He merely shrugged in response (which was surprisingly difficult to do while lying down). It wasn't any of Philip's business why he'd made the choices he had, and there wasn't any great mystery to it either. The answer was simple.

I had more to think about than what I wanted. That's all.

If being around to look out for his brother meant struggling through a job he disliked, staying in a city that raised him rough, and letting go of childish ambitions, then it was worth it. If James could have a place to stay, then putting up with the Prance brothers and everything else was worth it. If James didn't have to let go of childish ambitions, if he didn't have to put up with anything, and if Iain was there to make sure of it, then it would all be worth it.

In the silence, he tried to focus on nothing. He imagined only swirling blackness in his mind, devoid of everything, but the events of the day kept seeping through the cracks of his mind. He saw the burst of smoke. He heard the screams like shattering glass. He saw the military trucks lining the empty streets afterward and felt the silence that followed. The city had changed in an instant, and there was no denying that it would be forever changed.

What will the military do now that they've got no king to answer to, no government? As much as he wanted to deny it, the thought of his father taking over did not comfort him.

It's treason.

Philip's accusations of his father's treason echoed in his skull. If those accusations were true, then General Callaghan had caused more harm in the city than any low-ranking criminals or faeries ever could have. But questioning his father felt more like treason than anything else. Questioning anything that the Iron Guard ordered was treason, yet it did not seem as severe to Iain, though it was just as shameful.

"D'you know what Boyd's been calling himself?" Philip suddenly asked, making Iain looked up. Philip's expression was unreadable in the fading light, his eyes like hollows. "He calls himself General Callaghan's weapon. Not a person, but a weapon."

Iain imagined it would be easier on Boyd that way, to think of himself as a weapon. But it hadn't been a weapon whose knuckles had bruised and broken his flesh, tangled fingers in his hair, pulled his head back to look into a faceless weapon's eyes, and spat curses in his face. A weapon hadn't terrorized and injured innocents at a parade or plotted to kill a king or let smoke choke a city.

"You want me to feel sorry for him then?" Iain asked sharply. "If he had anything to do with what happened, he's just as guilty as the one who gave him the orders."

Philip turned to look at him in the dark. "If it was your brother that had done this—"

"My brother wouldn't have plotted to assassinate anyone," Iain insisted.

"But if he had, would you give up on him?"

Iain was silent.

No... I would never give up.

"You wouldn't." Philip turned on his headlight, which bathed the camp in a red glow. "That's the one thing I know about you, Callaghan. Despite everything, the one thing I can consistently respect about you is how much you care about that lad."

Iain's chest tightened. He knew Philip was right.

"I'm not asking that you forgive Boyd or lie for him or anything like that. All I'm asking is that you help me figure this out and get justice." Philip stood over him. "Can I count on you, Callaghan?"

"Once we find James, I can think about it." Iain answered slowly at first, feeling as if he were watching himself speak from a distance.

"You promise?" Philip asked.

Never thought I'd be making a promise to a Prance brother that didn't involve knocking their blocks off. Maybe it's all a setup and Boyd's crouching in the bushes somewhere waiting to catch me. Iain held back a dazed, tired laugh at the ridiculous mental image of Boyd popping out of the thicket like a rabbit and pointing at him triumphantly.

The absurdness of his own thinking made him realize just how much sense Philip's suspicions made in contrast.

Iain sat up, facing Philip in the darkness, all the humor gone from his mind. "Once James is safe," Iain promised firmly, "I'll do whatever I can to figure this out. I promise."

Philip slumped over slightly, resting his hands on his knees and exhaling in relief, thanking God in a whisper.

Iain knew he wouldn't be able to feel any relief until he found his brother. He ran his hands over his face roughly. "What will we do then? What do we do about our mission, about the girl?"

How does Deirdre fit in with all this?

An image of her flashed in his mind. A defiant girl sitting in a fortune-teller's tent, looking too human and too unaware in the midst of Ferriers Town.

If Philip was right in saying that General Callaghan and Boyd had orchestrated the assassination, then what role had Deirdre played, unwittingly or not? Deirdre played the role of a naive orphan. An innocent. A friend to James, who'd never really had anything resembling a friend before. If she had intentionally caused any of this mess, she was a better liar than anyone he'd met thus far.

"We'll take the girl back to the city as planned, but when we get there, we'll talk to General Windsor. He's a good man and a good general. He'll know what to do."

"Take her back?" Iain asked, confused. "But that's what General Callaghan wants, isn't it?"

"That might be true, but she's still a wanted faery. She was arrested for possible theft a few hours prior to the assassination, but she escaped. She might be working with your father, for all we know."

Iain sighed and threw his hands in the air. "Are there any other important details I should know about? Just get it all out in the open now."

Philip ignored his poor attempt at humor, plowing on ahead. "We go through with the mission as planned. We don't take any chances with her, got it?"

After Iain agreed, they settled into a comfortable silence again. Philip insisted that he take the first watch while Iain at least attempted to sleep, so he settled down at the base of a large oak tree and closed his eyes.

A strange sound brought Iain back to reality, from the edge of unconsciousness. It was like a whistle, high-pitched and seemingly moving about in the air, changing directions. He hadn't even noticed the chill that was in the air or that Philip was standing and staring into the field.

In the darkness, all he saw were the faint outlines of hills, the swaying of the grassy fields and leaves in trees.

The whistling grew louder. Iain flipped on his headlamp and hurriedly grabbed his bag and shouldered it as Philip motioned frantically for him to get up. Before Iain could stand, there was a deafening crash from above him, and before he knew what was happening, he was showered with debris and thrown flat on the ground, knocked over by something.

The tree had fallen, only just missing him. He was covered in splinters of wood and twigs and leaves. Disoriented, Iain struggled to roll over and face the sky to get his bearings.

The red light of his headlamp reflected something: one impossibly large, glassy eye, peering at him unblinkingly. As Iain scrambled across the ground on his back, his light flitted over a massive, twisted, bulky body. It wasn't a normal giant. There was something off about it, something grotesque, but in the darkness Iain could only see one hulking leg. The figure towered over him, blocking out the stars.

"Callaghan!" Philip was shouting at him, but he sounded so far away. "Get up! Move!"

The whistling sound came again, this time even louder. Iain spotted part of a giant metal chain that the creature was swinging through the air. It had felled the tree with it.

He gasped as the chain swung past his head with such force that the air stung his face. He got up and immediately stumbled back over a fallen branch.

Philip grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet. The creature did not chase after them as they ran. It didn't need to.

They heard the sharp whistling sound again, so loud it rang in their ears. Iain turned blindly to see where it was coming from.

"Get down!" Philip shouted and grabbed Iain around the waist, pulling him down. There was a sickening sound of the chain meeting something solid, of breaking bone. The pain must have been too great for Philip to make a sound.

Philip's arms fell away from him and he slumped over. Iain pulled him back up, grabbing ahold of Philip's jacket and pulling him into his arms. He could feel Philip's body twitching unnaturally, could hear a choked gurgling sound, could feel hot blood spilling over his hands as they gripped Philip's shoulders.

Iain heard the whistling again. He hauled Philip onto his shoulders and stood shakily to his feet, screaming from the effort, and started to move as fast as he could manage. He felt the chain whip past him, narrowly missing his back.

He kept running blindly. Philip was limp and heavy on his shoulders. Even when he could no longer see or hear the creature behind him, he did not stop.

In the cold, grey light of morning, there was no denying the damage the blow had done to Philip's body. Iain had walked until dawn broke, until he was certain they were no longer being followed. When he saw telephone wires and a road in the distance, he veered from the fields and followed the road until he came to a small, sparsely populated area. There were only a few farmhouses ahead, but Iain was hopeful they'd find help.

Iain laid Philip's unconscious body by the roadside and sat down beside him. He'd become conscious several times during the journey, only to make unintelligible, garbled sounds or to scream in pain, only to pass out again.

"Philip?" Iain had asked, trying to encourage him to speak, to stay conscious.

"Weapon—" Philip's hand had scrabbled uselessly at Iain's chest, grabbing on to his jacket.

Iain had attempted to assure Philip that the creature was no longer following them, that they didn't need a weapon, that Philip was safe. Whether or not his assurance helped, Iain did not know.

Looking over Philip in the morning light, Iain wondered how the other soldier was still alive at all. The chain had whipped across Philip's neck and head. There was too much blood to see what damage had been done, but he knew the head injury was grave. The way Philip had been moving, Iain knew he was seizing. He had managed to staunch the flow of blood from the gashes on Philip's head and neck, but he knew the bones were fractured in some places. There was little else he could do with his limited training.

With bloodied, shaking hands, Iain found his radio and flipped it on. Contacting General Callaghan was his only option. He peered around first to find out where they were; somewhere in the Surrey Hills, judging by the street signs.

When Iain finally got an answer, he began explaining what had happened. He calmly went over every detail he could think of and then waited for his father's response.

"I'll send a team to help right away. There are troops stationed nearby; they'll be contacted to meet you with medical in an hour. Can you move him to the town?"

Iain slumped over on the ground, as if all the strain was finally allowed to catch up with him after the long night of walking. "Negative. He's too rough to move him."

"What about the monster? Did the hostile follow you?"

"It was. It might still be."

"Get out if you can. I can track your location through your radios. Keep one on you."

Iain nodded to himself dazedly. All through the night, he thought he heard the whistling sound or the thundering crash of a tree being felled.

"Have you found James and the girl?"

"I've lost their trail."

There was a long, empty silence on the other end. Iain wondered if there was interference of some kind, but he heard static. Iain shook the device uselessly. He thought General Callaghan must have turned the radio off from his side, though he didn't know why.

"Keep tracking them," his father's voice finally came. "Medical will come for Commander Prance soon. That's an order."

The radio abruptly clicked off, and he knew for certain that this time the general had turned it off.

"I think—I think he's dying," Iain said into the radio. He knew his tone, small and lost, betrayed him. But no one was present to witness his momentary weakness.

Philip began to stir again. As carefully as he could manage, Iain gently lifted his head and placed a rolled-up cloth under his neck. He hoped Philip would be able to breathe easier. Philip's eyes, clouded with red, opened slowly and focused on Iain. For a moment there was clarity in his eyes.

When Philip held out his hand weakly, though it seemed like he could barely move his arm, Iain grabbed his hand without thinking about it. Philip attempted to speak, but no words came out, only faint noises. Iain knew that talking to him would be best to keep him conscious. He didn't know what to say, what he could say.

"I remember—I remember one summer, when you and Boyd left to visit your gran in Ireland, yeah? You came back and showed me all the photographs from your visit you took. They were great, professional-like. I've never been to the Irish coast, but it's— The water's so blue, but dark. Most beautiful place I've ever seen. The green hills, and the cliffs, the rocky shores..."

Philip squeezed his hand, as if encouraging Iain to continue. Iain kept talking uncertainly until he noticed that Philip was no longer looking at him but at the sky. His hand had gone slack in Iain's grasp. He'd gone so suddenly, so quietly, that Iain hadn't noticed.

"Philip?" Iain's fingers moved to Philip's wrist to check for his pulse. Nothing.

He stared at Philip's swollen, nearly unrecognizable face, and it was easy to convince himself that the body was not his. He couldn't imagine Philip being gone. He'd just heard him laughing yesterday. He'd just been talking to him. Philip was impossibly loud in every way, in the way he spoke, his presence. His life should somehow be harder than most to snuff out. He felt like Philip should have gone out fighting, not quietly. So quietly.

Iain wiped his sweating face on the back of his sleeve. His hands were stained with Philip's blood. He looked at the road ahead of him, at the silent stillness of the morning. Grass blew gently in the breeze.

Iain did not want to leave the body. It felt wrong to leave him even if he was obeying orders. But eventually he did. He was on his own again.

Chapter Sixteen

Deirdre woke with the sun and immediately got up, dusted herself off, checked her hair for insects, and then began to stretch out the stiffness that came from sleeping on the ground. James slept like a log until the sunlight was shining right on his face, and afterward it took him a while to even sit up. Last night he had muttered a few times about how uncomfortable his sleeping arrangements were, and his opinion had clearly not changed. He sat there, stretching half-heartedly for a while and wincing with stiffness, his eyes still half-closed.

"We should get an early start," Deirdre said, finishing her last stretch. "We can get water from that well as we head out and eat breakfast as we go."

James only responded with a light nod, but he did not seem to be in any hurry. After waiting a few minutes, Deirdre pointed out an enormous squash bug that was crawling onto his leg. This encouraged him to leap to his feet impressively fast, though he took his time wiping himself and his things off, checking for insects, before they headed off.

After packing up, they headed down to the well. While James pulled up another bucket of water, Deirdre took out the map, looking at the course James had drawn in colored pencil earlier. It led through a stretch of woods and fields, then straight toward the orphanage, circling around the village.

They found and stuck to that path. Deirdre led the way, as some of the terrain was familiar to her. After about an hour of relentless, brisk walking, James spoke up in a tired, half-whining voice, "Can we take a break?"

She recognized that tone. It was often used by the girls she took on camping trips when they were getting worn out and beginning to consider mutiny, so she readily agreed.

They were in a wide, leafy grove in a stretch of woods. At its center was a half-wrecked, rusted car, covered with vines. She slipped off her backpack and plopped it and herself on the hood. She plucked a pebble off the bottom of the windscreen and tossed it in the air, catching it each time.

"We covered a lot of ground yesterday." James had regained his composure and was sitting on a fallen log near her. "More than I expected."

After flinging the pebble as far as she could (missing her target of a far bush by several feet), Deirdre began to run her fingers through her hair, inspecting it again for anything caught in it and immediately finding a couple of leaves. After carefully placing his backpack on the log, James got up and stretched, beginning to walk at a leisurely pace around the grove.

Deirdre was still fishing through her hair when, on the other side of the grove where the trees cleared, James called her. "Come look at this! Look! We are in a faery forest!"

"What?" Jumping off the car, Deirdre rushed over to him, asking, "Is it a faery? Did you see one?"

"No, look!" He pointed at a line of mushrooms that extended in a wide arc out of the grove and into a grassy clearing. It looped around in a full, perfect circle, well over forty feet in diameter. The grass around and inside it was short and cleanly cut, as if it was on a lawn rather than in the middle of abandoned woods.

Recognizing all the signs, Deirdre sucked in her breath. "This is a real one."

"Aren't they all real?" James asked, a bemused grin on his face.

She shook her head. "No, the smaller ones that aren't taken care of are just naturally occurring. I've only ever seen one like this before..." A small, nervous smile formed on her face. "You're right. There are faeries here."

She began to walk along the outside of it, studying the mushrooms as she went. They were Scotch bonnets, which were edible. She felt thrilled for one second, but then her elation quickly dropped away—taking mushrooms from real faery rings was strongly warned against.

But that means there might be some others in this clearing. She licked her lips. That would be wonderful. Maybe we could pick some to take to the orphanage...

Sighing, she glanced up, thinking to inform James about searching for these mushrooms elsewhere as they continued. He was staring inside the circle, his attention fixed intently on something. Following his gaze, she saw nothing. She looked back up just in time to see him step over the mushrooms and into the circle. The focused look on his face immediately vanished; his eyes glazed over, but he kept walking slowly toward the center of the circle.

"James! Get out of there, now!"

He didn't respond; he didn't seem to have heard her. She ran around the circle, standing on her toes as close to the circle as she could get without breaking it, hoping to grab his shirt and yank him back out. She leaned and reached, her fingers brushing the back of his shirt.

She yelped, losing her balance as she took several small, sharp blows to the back of her head, like thrown stones. The moment her foot crossed the circle, she froze, her eyes screwed shut, waiting for the worst.

But nothing happened. She opened her eyes again; James was still walking, as dead to the world as a sleepwalker, toward the center. She looked behind her. There was no one in sight. Holding her breath, she tiptoed over to James, grabbing his shoulder.

"James, come on, we need to get out of this circle," she whispered. He didn't notice, and her attempts to stop him by pushing had no effect, even though he was shorter and skinnier than her.

She grabbed handfuls of his jacket and pulled, digging her heels into the ground, shouting, "Come on! Stop being so stubborn, blast it!" But it was as effective as pulling on an old oak tree to make it get up and follow.

The flapping of wings and birds singing, previously in the distance and muted, suddenly became loud. She looked up, seeing several small, yellow birds fluttering from the trees, flying toward them, tweeting merrily. It almost sounded like they were giggling.

"You're not helping!" she snapped at them, giving another yank on James's jacket.

"Why would we?"

One of the birds flew close, and Deirdre, with a sharp gasp, realized it was not a bird—it had bright yellow feathers on the crest and wings and the slight build of a bird, but it was a small person. A small person with the same dark eyes as a goldcrest bird, along with skin the same hue as the bird's dull, light brown feathers. The others, who all looked the same, flew closer as well, flapping their wings to hover like no bird could, watching her with interest.

Deirdre gulped, pointing at them. "You're... you're faeries! And you— What did you do to James?"

The faeries twittered and laughed. "Why does it matter what happens to one small human boy? We're just having fun. Besides, his fate is sealed by dark magic. So it doesn't matter what we do!"

Planting her feet firmly on the ground, Deirdre demanded, "Release him! Now!"

The faeries just laughed, some shaking their heads, beginning to fly circles around her and James, who was still trudging blindly toward the circle's center. He was nearly there.

Panic was bubbling hot inside her; she had heard of people who vanished for ages at the center of faery circles. Some of them disappeared for decades and came back, completely the same age, left behind by the world.

And I let James come out here. And... She bared her teeth, her entire body shaking and aflame with anger. Ignoring the warning in the back of her mind, she pointed and shouted at the faeries, "He didn't even do anything wrong! He didn't know any better! Let him GO!"

The sky grew darker, like a heavy, thick cloud covered the sun, even though it was very clear. At the same time, the mushrooms in the circle began to turn black, rotting as though they were at the end of their lives. Deirdre gasped, stepping back. The bird faeries had gone silent. Her hands suddenly felt like they were on fire, and the sickening smell of the decaying mushrooms reached her, overwhelming.

"No... make it stop!" she pleaded with the faeries, though she could barely hear her own voice over the thundering of her heartbeat. "Please, make it stop! STOP!"

The mushrooms completely shriveled, and the faeries, letting out cries of alarm, flitted away, disappearing into the leafy trees. She watched, and when they didn't reappear, her legs gave out and she collapsed, hugging herself, her entire body suddenly feeling cold. The sky immediately cleared, the woods and clearing once again bathed in soft, morning light.

James stopped walking and staggered, almost losing his balance, catching himself by putting his hands on his knees. Immediately Deirdre leaped to his side, asking if he was okay. He shook his head several times, like there was water in his ears, before even noticing she was there.

"What just happened?" he asked, his voice thick as if with sleep. "What just..." His eyes widened as he noticed the blackened mushrooms, some of them completely decayed, being blown away by the wind. "What happened to the faery circle?"

"I..." Deirdre looked down at the mushrooms, raising her hand to her heart.

He began to walk around fretfully, as if searching for a mushroom that survived. "I don't understand." He shook his head and looked at her. "How did this happen? What did this?"

"Maybe... maybe it was the faeries?" she guessed weakly.

James was running his hands through his hair, staring at the ring, then at her. "You saw the faeries? What..." His eyes lit up, completely devoid of all confusion. "What did they look like? Where did they go?"

"Well, they looked like birds, I think? They flew off." She gestured at the trees. "But what about you? Do you feel all right? You were really out of it."

"Well..." He looked at the trees, as if hoping to see the faeries perched in the leaves. "I thought I saw something, maybe faeries, at the center of the circle. I didn't..." He looked back at the blackened mushrooms. "I don't even remember stepping inside. But why did the faeries ruin their own ring? That doesn't match up with anything I've read."

"Well, it..." She bit on her lip. There was no denying it; aside from the darkness, it was exactly like what happened with the tires.

And the sky only started going dark once I began to yell... She covered her mouth with her hand, her breath quickening. It really was me. It really was! But how? Why?!

James's words about her parents maybe being faery cultists popped to her mind; she bit her lip and kneaded her forehead, trying in vain to make sense of everything. "I couldn't have used magic. I'm not a cultist or anything weird! I couldn't have..."

"You used magic?" James asked, his voice pitched with curiosity.

"I don't know!" she screamed at him. "I don't know why this happened! I don't know why I keep breaking things or ruining things. I don't know!" She buried her face in her hands.

"But if the faeries didn't do this, then who did?" he pressed. When she looked up, a small smile was forming at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't think it's anything to be happy about!" she snapped, stalking past him, heading back toward the woods to get her backpack.

"Wait! Maybe it's not a bad thing!" He caught up to her, shouldering his pack, though she didn't look at him and kept walking. "Maybe it happened for a reason!"

"What are you even talking about?" She spotted her backpack and tried to lift it; the pack felt too heavy in her weakened grasp, and she dropped it. Her hands were trembling.

"Deirdre!" She felt James's fingers grip her arm, and she whirled around to face him. "I think—I think there might be a reason why we met, why we're out here together. Like, fate, or something. You remember what I told you about my mum?" James held out a weathered piece of paper toward her, his other still holding her elbow gently. He was trembling just as much as she was as he held the page out to her. "This letter is from her. And it says—it says that I'm marked by magic. Dark magic."

Deirdre's eyes widened as they focused on the letter. Dark magic? This can't be right. This can't be happening! I can't deal with this. I just can't!

"You must be marked by magic too," James said, his voice wavering. "Maybe we can figure it out together. Maybe that's why we found each other—"

Heat began to radiate from her hands again, making her shudder in fear.

Not again! Not now!

She wrenched her arm out of James's grasp, shoving the letter and his hand away from her. "Just stay away from me!" she snapped, holding her hands to her chest, clasping them so tightly it hurt.

For the first time, she saw James look truly startled by her, and it had nothing to do with her magic.

"Deirdre..." James trailed off, lowering his arm to his side slowly.

A twinge of guilt went through her, and her head was spinning, but when she reached again for her pack, this time she pulled it up and on her back successfully. "I'm going to Trinity."

"But—"

"I'm going!"

She broke into a run down the path. She gave the rotted mushrooms a wide berth and, once she got to the top of the hill, recognized an old, mossy signpost at the bottom. She raced in the direction of the orphanage. Even when her legs began to burn and she began to cry, she kept on running, down small roads, across fields filled with sheep that watched her meditatively as she passed. The wind whistled in her ears, sometimes sounding like the twittering of the faeries. She looked around and over her shoulder many times, eyes wide with fear that they were following her. There was nothing, and she kept running.

* * *

Iain sat Philip's radio by his body so the medical team could find him. Even if they had gotten there sooner, Iain was uncertain they could have done anything to save him. When the chain had struck Philip, he was as good as dead.

He pushed me out of the way. Why did he push me out of the way?

Iain walked onward, heading back toward the open fields and using his compass to tell which direction to go. He kept walking on what felt like autopilot, like his mind sometimes left his body. He walked without remembering where he'd been, and before he knew it, he had been walking for hours. His legs were stiff, his stomach achingly empty. He felt nothing besides physical sensations.

When the sun rose higher in the sky, Iain searched his bag for his canteen, only to find that he'd left it at camp last night in the chaos. All he wanted was water. All his mind could do was focus on a single, pressing need at a time.

When Iain went to double-check his bag for the canteen, his hand brushed against his belt and the handle of the sidearm in his holster. An angry heat shot through his body, manifesting in his face. He ripped the gun out blindly and held it in front of his eyes, staring wildly in disbelief.

"Why can you never bloody think?" he shouted so loudly that his throat was raw. "You worthless idiot!"

He could have shot at the monster last night. Maybe if he'd remembered, if he'd shot at it, it might have backed down, it might've fled, it might've been distracted long enough for them to get away. Maybe Philip wouldn't have had to pull Iain down to get him out of the way.

Iain knew it wouldn't have done much, but it might have done something. The creature had been scarred, looking almost as if it had been badly burned before. It looked like it could take a lot of firepower and remain unscathed and breathing.

But still—

Furious, Iain holstered his weapon again. He took off, seeing nothing but red for a while. He pushed himself harder than before, keeping a grueling pace as the land became rockier and sloped.

That must've been what Philip was trying to tell me. I should've used my weapon.

Philip had been delirious from pain and the injury. He might not have known it was too late.

No, that's not it. He was pointing to me. At me.

I'm the weapon.

Chills dotted his flesh. He wondered what role he might've unwittingly played alongside Boyd, if what Philip thought was really true. He wondered what plans his father might have for him.

The wind whistled in his ears. Only the foliage around him did not ebb and flow like ocean waves as they had before and no breeze brushed his skin. The sound had come from close by. It was the same whistling from last night, from the chain slicing through the air. Iain took off, faster than before.

He didn't stop running, even though the sound vanished, until he spotted the cottage. It was old-fashioned, made from cobblestone. It sat on a small hill beside a plot of farmland and a wheat field. Outside, Iain could see a chicken coop and a pen for some livestock and a small barn in the back. It seemed to be the only residency in the immediate area.

A path made of flat river rocks led up to the front door. It was a small house, smaller than the military housing, even. When he rapped his knuckles on the red wooden door, he heard shuffling from inside the house, but no one came to the door.

"Please," Iain said, knocking again, "I need water and a place to rest. I'll only be an hour. I just need a rest."

Still no answer.

"You're required by law to aid and provide shelter to any soldier that asks," Iain stated firmly, his voice rising in volume.

A woman cracked the door open and peered out at him. Her eyes widened in alarm at Iain's bloodied appearance. The woman looked at him and then turned her face away, looking at someone out of Iain's line of sight behind the door. She bit her lip.

"I-I'm sorry to bother you." Iain's expression softened when he heard a baby crying faintly inside of the cottage. "I'll stay in the barn if you prefer. I just need a safe place to rest."

To his surprise, the woman nodded and opened the door wide, motioning for him to come inside. He ducked through the door, and the woman closed it behind him.

The house was even more humble than it had looked from the outside. There was no stove but a pot over the fireplace. Dried herbs were hanging from the ceiling.

"You don't have to stay in the barn," the woman said softly. She led him to a chair at a wooden table. Iain sat down gratefully. "I'll fetch you some water."

When she came back with a cask of water, Iain drank it so fast that it dribbled down his chin. It was cold and sweet, like fresh spring water. Iain nodded in thanks. He heard the baby squalling again, but he didn't see it anywhere.

"What happened to you?" the woman asked. She stood away from him, her arms folded almost protectively around her middle.

Iain was about to answer when something else caught his attention. It was a familiar scent, demanding in its insistence that he focus all his energy on it. Pan. It was at the same moment when a man walked in from another room, carrying a babe in his arms.

Shooting to his feet, Iain knocked over the goblet of water. It spilled over the side of the table and snaked along the floor, hissing as it came into contact with the hot stones in front of the fireplace. He thought at first was a trick of the light; Iain came to realize that the man's eyes were orange in color by nature. He was a faery.

"What... what was in the water?" Iain asked dazedly, looking from the faery to the woman.

A thousand different thoughts rattled through his mind—that this woman might be a captive that needed help, that the water could have been tainted with faery fruit, that the faery could be on the side of the Unseelie Court.

If it were faery fruit she'd given him in the water, it would be a highly concentrated dose. He remembered what it had felt like—the sudden confusion, the dizziness, the fading in and out of consciousness. The world had melted away, faded to black, taking all the pain with it. While a single bite of the fruit alone usually brought on mild hallucinations and euphoria, there was nothing pleasant about a high dose beyond oblivion. Elaine had introduced him to both sensations.

He did not feel any different after swallowing the water, however. He felt foolish for panicking. Each of his doubts were silenced by what the faery stepped forward and said to him.

"I'm begging you, soldier, not to hurt my family. We have done nothing wrong."

"Hurt you?" Iain whispered. He lowered his arms, relaxing his posture as his doubts flickered out.

Then he noticed the fear in their eyes, directed at him. He was used to a certain kind of fear from people—a fear that told him they did not trust him, did not want him around. This was different. "I'm not going to hurt you..."

"He's only a child, Siobhan." The woman hissed, gesturing to Iain. "A soldier, yes, but—look at him. He's just a boy."

"I'm not—" Iain's first instinct was to contradict the statement, but he stopped himself, remembering his manners. I'm not a child... he finished in his head stubbornly; his face flushed as he realized how childish he sounded saying it.

He hadn't felt like a child since Mum left.

The male faery nailed him with a suspicious look. "Doesn't seem to matter these days. Humans aren't above training up children to war for them."

As Iain walked slowly around the table, the couple watched him as closely as hawks. Even when Iain held up his hands, they looked at him as if he was the one who possessed powerful, unknown magic instead of the other way around. They were staring at the iron horseshoe insignia on his jacket.

Mum had told him before of when her family had first arrived in Neo-London, how the military had raided their business, their homes, looking for stolen goods, demanding papers. They'd been treated as subhuman. He remembered Mum, despite being married to a general, had a deep distrust of the city authorities since that day. Iain felt like he finally understood why.

The Iron Guard's been treating the Fae with the same fairness. Just like Marko said.

Iain had thought things had changed. He was wrong.

"We don't want to cause you harm. We just wish to be left alone," the faery pleaded. "That's why we left!"

"You fled from the city, didn't you?" Iain asked.

The faery nodded. "They wanted me to stay in Ferriers Town with the rest of my kind, but I couldn't raise a family there. There is a reason why they build iron fences in the other parts of the city. They don't want me there even if it's to provide for my own family."

Iain backed off farther as a sign he meant them no ill will.

"I just need some food, and I'll be on my way. No one will know you're here. I promise you, you'll be safe," Iain assured them firmly.

He looked at the infant in the faery's arms, how securely it was held against his chest, and found himself smiling faintly at the sight.

I hope they make it. I hope they stay safe here.

He walked into the kitchen and began searching for something to take with him, a small ration that would get him through the rest of the day until he found James. The smell of Pan struck him again, and his mouth began to fill with saliva. It was all he could think about, all he could see. The fresh fruits that littered the counter paled in comparison to the faery fruit.

The couple watched him, though they kept their distance. Iain could not fault them for their mistrust. They were smart not to trust.

"Thank you," Iain said shakily, tearing his eyes away from the fruit and nodding toward the couple. "I mean it. Most people—they wouldn't have bothered to open the door."

After Iain left a few coins on the table to cover the cost, he began to pack his satchel with a few items. He packed an orange. If he peeled the skin, the fruit inside would be okay to eat and not unclean. His hand hovered over the fruit.

"Please, soldier, you do not want to take that. I have other food fit for humans." The woman stood in the doorway, her arm outstretched as if to stop him.

Iain swallowed hard. He snatched a single ripe, plump berry from the counter and stuffed it in his bag.

"Didn't you hear me? I said that fruit is no good for you! You don't know what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing." Iain turned his back to them, heading out the front door and outside.

Chapter Seventeen

Deirdre was still running when she reached the first fence around the orphanage's lands. She vaulted it, but the toe of her boot just caught it, and she sprawled forward on the grassy ground. Promptly pushing herself back up, she wiped her face and kept running; the familiar, old, grey buildings were in sight, beckoning her with promised comfort.

She knew that Mother Superior liked to walk and pray outside when the girls were in their morning classes, so she searched for her on the outskirts where she usually roamed. A flash of black and white stopped her, and she backtracked, rounding a row of trees and arriving at the enormous kitchen garden. Seated on a stone bench was Mother Superior, rosary in hand, eyes shut.

"Mother!"

Mother Superior started and jumped up from her seat, spotting Deirdre. "Deirdre! What on earth are you doing here? Why, you're filthy!"

Beginning to sob, Deirdre ran over to her, letting her backpack fall to the ground, nearly tackling the woman in an embrace. She tried to talk but choked on her tears.

"Good heavens," Mother said with a sigh, sitting back down with Deirdre, hugging her in return. "I thought I was seeing a vision of you from seven years ago." A few moments later, when the girl's sobs began to fade into sniffles, Mother pushed her back gently, arms on her shoulders, and asked, "What happened, Deirdre?"

"I don't know! I don't know what's going on!" she cried. "I broke a twig without touching it, cracked and ruined my dormitory teacher's teacup, I made some guy lose his tires, and then I completely ruined a faery circle! The mushrooms were completely rotten, and it wasn't the faeries!"

"Wait. Deirdre, take a deep breath. Then another one... And another." After walking Deirdre through several breaths, each slower and deeper than the last, Mother said, "Deirdre, why don't you tell me about each of those things, one at a time."

"But it all started with the banshee! And I..." She sniffed loudly and shuddered. "I got put in jail and I STILL don't know why, and then we saw this monster yesterday! And—"

"Start with the banshee." Mother interrupted, her voice calm and firm. "Then tell me about everything else, but do one thing at a time."

So Deirdre started from entering the city, seeing the banshee on the curb outside Ferriers Town, all the way up to the faery ring. She left nothing out, and Mother Superior did not interrupt, aside from sometimes frowning more thoughtfully than usual.

Once Deirdre finished, Mother Superior asked, "So why have you come back here? You didn't just come back to run away from the soldiers, did you?"

"Well, no..." She rocked back and forth in her seat. "I thought, maybe what happened had something to do with my parents. I mean, what if they were faery cultists or something like that? What if I'm cursed or something?"

Mother gave her a stern look. "Child, if you were cursed somehow, you would have known before some random twig broke. Faeries like order—when in a faery story did a faery ever do something so random? No, if a faery had cursed you or your family... there would be some significance behind its manifestation. It would have happened on your sixteenth birthday or something such as that."

"Still," she pressed, "is there anything about my parents you haven't told me? Maybe a note they left or a strange blanket I was in, or—"

"Deirdre, you know better," Mother said quietly. "When you turned twelve, we told you everything we knew."

Leaning forward, Deirdre buried her face in her hands. "Then why is this happening to me? Did the banshee curse me, after all?"

"Banshees can't do anything you've described. Their powers are too limited to have caused your troubles."

Deirdre's body shook with a sob. "Then what is going on?"

Mother put her arm around the girl's shoulders, saying, "Back when I first came here, years ago... we raised a strange child. She was bright and mischievous and had a knack for connecting with animals in the village. It was uncanny... but she never did anything wrong, so we let her be. It wasn't until much later we discovered the truth."

"That she was crazy or something?" Deirdre asked, looking over at Mother with a humorless smile.

"She was a changeling."

Deirdre shot up, leaning away from Mother. "You're kidding. I'm not— I can't be one of them!"

"I don't know what you are. But I noticed similarities between you and that child as you were growing up. Still, they could mostly be explained away..."

"But—"

Mother gave her a sharp look. "It's not definite. But the fact is that it is an option, a probable one. And we must always consider all realistic possibilities, whether we like them or not. To not do so is to live in denial."

"But, if—IF—I was a faery, wouldn't weird things, magic and stuff, wouldn't it have been happening all my life?"

Mother folded her arms thoughtfully. "Not necessarily. Sometimes changelings have their powers sealed before they are given to humans. And those seals can only be broken in a few ways... such as by the touch of a skilled faery. And you said the banshee touched you, yes? And that was the very first time you came into direct contact with a faery, especially one with her skills. A faery living in the city, telling fortunes... she'd be more skilled than any normal forest or garden faery. She may have unlocked your magic unintentionally."

"But..." She thought back to the banshee and the faeries at the ring. "But aren't faeries crazy or something?"

Mother hesitated, then said, "That's not a word I'd use. Deirdre, you remember how I told you that elves live in large stones back in Iceland? When I was very young... I met one." Deirdre gasped, and Mother continued, "I met one, and she even gave me the small, wooden key to her stone house. We played every day... and I never lost any time playing with her. We'd play for hours, and when I came back outside, only a couple of minutes had passed. Those were lovely times."

She sighed, smiling softly. "I learned so much from her, about faeries, about Iceland... about myself. Then one day the key disappeared. I had just turned twelve, and I was starting to grow up. And when I woke up to see it gone... I wasn't surprised. She didn't abandon me cruelly... of course I missed her at first, but we both knew it was time for our friendship to end even if we never said so."

"I had no idea," Deirdre whispered, staring at Mother, transfixed.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Well of course you didn't! And you'll keep your mouth shut about it. If any of the English heard about it, they'd think me a traitor. My point is, Deirdre, there is a fair chance this may be happening because you are a faery. Or maybe you are only half a faery... or even less. No matter what the case is, I ask you to accept whatever life delivers you with open eyes. Never, ever run away from the truth. Will you promise me that?"

Sucking in a long breath, Deirdre nodded. "I promise."

"Good." She patted Deirdre's hand. "Now, you may go anywhere from here, Deirdre. Where shall you go?"

"I... I was going to go toward the Summer Court. The banshee said that's where my parents are. They could know the truth about me."

"And if this magic is yours, you will most likely find a way to control it there, at the Court."

Deirdre's mouth fell open. "Really? You think they'd help me?"

"If you ask them to." Mother gave her a serious look. "If you go there, a word of caution. The Summer Court is filled with only Seelie, or good, faeries. But they are still extremely dangerous."

"You mean they'll attack me?" She gulped. "Try to kill me?"

"Well..." Mother began to talk with her hands as she continued, "Elves and faeries... they are like rivers. They are powerful, and we do not fully understand how they work. Something can happen upstream that can make them break their boundaries and harm you. They won't purposely attack you unless you give them a reason... but they can still put you in danger, and you'll never know why."

"But your elf friend..."

Mother nodded. "Only when I was older did I realize how many dangerous situations I was put in because of her. At the time, I only found it fun... an adventure. And she was fond of me, so she was somewhat careful. But my life was at risk many times when we played."

Deirdre curled up on the stone seat, hugging her knees to herself. "So that makes it bad? You two being friends and playing together?"

To her surprise, Mother smiled. "My parents would say so, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Not then, and not now." When Deirdre still looked puzzled, Mother continued, "Just exercise caution, much like you would if you were hiking in a dangerous setting."

"Should I go?" Deirdre stood up. "Should I really go? Will it all be worth it?"

"Only you have the answer to that, child."

Deirdre groaned, kicking at the dirt. "I knew you'd say that."

"You traveled here with someone else, didn't you?" Mother asked, also standing.

"Yes, I was with..." Her eyes widened and her hands flew to her mouth. "James! I left him— I mean, I ran all the way here... Ooh, he might have got lost or something! I need to go find him!"

Mother placed a hand on Deirdre's shoulder, stopping her from bolting off. "Deirdre, two things before you go. You are always welcome here... but I do not want to see you again simply because you gave up on your journey. Do you understand?"

"I do. And I..." She couldn't finish the sentence, because deep down she felt strangely certain that she would not return to the orphanage, perhaps ever again.

"Good." Mother's expression turned grim as she continued, "Also, I believe I know who is responsible for you being imprisoned. One of the generals of the English army came here yesterday. He sponsors this school... His name is Alan Callaghan. And he asked for and took your files."

Deirdre tilted her head. "Why would he do that?"

"Somehow he heard of your getting into mischief in the city. And so he came here and took your files. He's as extreme as they come when it comes to faeries... He must believe you are a faery, locking you up like that. Be careful. If he went out of his way to imprison you like that, I doubt he'll let you go without a fight. He is dangerous."

Rocking back and forth on her feet, unsure how to reply, Deirdre tried at a joke. "But is he more dangerous than the faeries are?"

Mother raised an eyebrow. "That depends. He's a bit cleverer than they are. They're mischievous but not always cunning. And he's as cunning as a fox."

Deirdre sighed. "I'll be careful."

Mother walked her to the edge of the garden, accepting a farewell hug after Deirdre had slung her backpack back on. As Deirdre walked away, heading toward where she had left James, she thought, Maybe I should have asked what Alan Callaghan looked like. Hm. Callaghan... why does that name sound familiar?

She searched her memory for a moment, then shrugged and kept walking. If it was important, she'd probably remember eventually.

"There you are!"

She turned to see James approaching, his face red, his breathing ragged.

"I'm so sorry!" Deirdre hurried over to him. "I was so upset, I just completely..."

James shook his head, leaning over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath between words, "I... tried to... follow you. You're... really fast..."

She rubbed the back of her head, grinning. "Well, I manage." But then her expression sobered and she continued, "But I'm sorry, I shouldn't have run off or snapped at you like that! That was wrong of me. Forgive me?"

James looked a bit surprised by her quick apology, but he managed a nod. "Sure."

She sighed in relief. "Thank you!"

"About what I said before"—James lowered his voice—"what my mum said in her letter— I didn't mean to frighten you, or whatever. I just think that what Mum said and what's happening to you might be connected somehow. Maybe you're marked by magic too."

Deirdre folded her arms, thinking. "But Mother said it wasn't a curse... but she didn't mention being marked by magic. It sounds bad though..."

"Only," James said contemplatively, "I haven't used any magic like you have. I figure if I were cursed with magic, I would've used it loads of times before now." He snickered. "The Fancy Prancers and half of Neo-London would probably be turned to toads by now, most likely!" Then his expression sobered. "Or if it's only used when someone's in danger, I still would've had some chances for something to happen."

"But it hasn't happened to you?"

"No. Not that I'm aware of."

"Maybe that's not what it is with me then. I don't know... How do you get marked by magic?"

James sighed. "I don't know. I don't even know what it means. But that just means we'll have to figure it out, learn something new."

He hesitated before continuing, "It— The letter said something else as well. It said that something evil had... claimed me or something." He looked up at Deirdre, studying her face for a response.

Her hands flew to her mouth. "You mean, like, an evil faery or something? Like a child-eating evil faery or something like that? That's terrible!"

"Child-eating—" James's eyes widened. "Not necessarily," he said, holding up his hands. "Evil can be kind of subjective, can't it? I mean, my mum thought leftovers were evil."

Deirdre blinked twice. "What do you mean? Evil is evil!"

"Umm, yeah. Anyway," James said, "did you talk to someone? Did you learn anything about your parents?"

"Yes! I mean, I met Mother Superior, and I learned so much from her, about faeries and everything. But she didn't know anything else about my parents. But I think..." She took in a deep breath before continuing, "I think I will be going on to the Summer Court after all. I don't know what's going on, but something is different about me... She said they can help me there, and I can find my parents too. That's the only way to be sure that I'm human."

Raising an eyebrow, James gave her an incredulous smile. "You really bounce back fast, don't you?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, swaying back and forth on her heels.

"Never mind. Um, so what did she say about faeries?"

"A lot! But she said they are dangerous." She leveled a frown at James. "Even the Summer Court will be dangerous. They're... unpredictable."

"You're still going though, aren't you?" When she nodded, he continued, "And I've still got to... you know, find my mum. So..."

"We'd best go together then!" She beamed at him, hands on her hips. "So. Where should we go from here?"

"Um... north." He pulled out a map and trailed the path with his fingers. It went almost right into a wide city area.

"That's old London." She jabbed her finger at it. "We'll almost be going into it. Shouldn't we go around? It's supposed to be full of radiation, right?"

"My dad taught us that the dangerous stuff was all collected and put in the middle of the city. There's some radiation around the area, but it's mostly harmless. As long as we don't go into the middle of the city or drink any water in the city, I think we'll be fine."

"But why go near it at all?" she pressed, her hands on her hips.

"Well, faeries mostly avoid it except for the ones attracted to the radiation and pollution, or at least that's what I've heard. But they'll all be in the middle of the city; I've heard they feed off the waste like flies."

"Ugh." Deirdre made a face. "What sorts of faeries would do that?"

James just shrugged. "None of my books explained much about it. But other faeries usually avoid the city altogether, I think, so if we stay on the outskirts, we'll avoid the monsters both inside and outside the city."

"All right then." Smiling, she stepped back and gestured. "Lead the way!"

* * *

Iain found a well outside. He drew a bucket and scrubbed the dried blood from his hands as best as he could. It occurred to Iain that when he did get back home with James, Philip would no longer be there to plead his case to General Windsor and tell everyone what General Callaghan had done.

It would be my word against my father's. The word of an Iron Warden grunt against the word of a celebrated general.

Would anyone believe him if he started spouting accusations based on something a dead man had told him? He had no proof of anything, and now it seemed like he never would. He'd never done anything to prove himself to his peers or mentors in his training, to make himself worthy of their trust. All he'd done was kept to himself, pushed people away. He was nearly the perfect witness: someone no one would believe.

Iain slept an hour in the barn, just long enough to restore his strength sufficiently to keep walking. He set off quickly, looking back at the house only once. He kept listening for the sound of whistling.

Iain ate the orange while he traveled. While the fruit was sweet and hydrating, he still did not feel satisfied. He couldn't feel an ounce of satisfaction while he could still smell the faery's fruit in his satchel. It pervaded his senses, nagging.

He hadn't even noticed taking the fruit out of his bag. It was in his hand, and he'd stopped walking. He tried to convince himself he would just give in this once, that it wouldn't turn into a problem like it had years ago.

Iain held it up to his mouth without realizing. His mouth watered. He could almost taste it, almost feel the relief it would bring. It would get him through the day, give him the strength he needed to keep going. It would help him reach James...

James. Remember James.

He thought of James for the first time since he'd taken the fruit, and disgust twisted in his gut. He couldn't believe what he had almost done. He couldn't believe how easily he had almost lost all his progress, how easily he could've fallen back into old habits—and while he still had a mission to complete, while he was still covered in Philip's blood.

Iain scoffed at himself in disbelief, coming to his senses like stepping out of fog. "Yeah, that's a brilliant move. That will get you credibility for sure."

Without another moment of hesitation, Iain pulled back his arm and chucked the contaminated fruit into the field behind him with all the force he could muster. He was breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest. He could still smell the fruit. The scent clung to his clothes.

It did not take him long to pick up on James and Deirdre's trail. He found a campsite that was fresh enough to have been used last night, in a clearing with an old, abandoned vehicle.

The old London ruins are close to here. That's where they've headed.

Iain saw a large mound of earth ahead of him. Peeking up from the other side were the dark silhouettes of old, decayed, and burned skeletal remains of old London. The bombing destroyed most of the buildings; those that remained had been claimed by nature, overgrown with plant life. He decided to go around the mound instead of over it, knowing it would take longer but not trusting that faeries had not inhabited the greener areas of the ruins. Iain set off toward old London.

Chapter Eighteen

It was a cloudless day, and though the cool breeze was persistent, the sunlight made up for it. Deirdre easily shrugged off any worries, her spirits boosted by the pleasant, crisp mood of the day. James asked her about everything she learned from Mother Superior about her family and the faeries. She answered honestly, save for when it came to Mother's elf friend. She shared the story but told it like it was another person's tale, like one of Mother's neighbors.

Once James had stopped his discussion about faeries, she began to chat about the trees and plants they came across, comparing them to the ones she had gotten familiar with during her years of hiking and camping. She shared how she had gotten lost so many times that the Sisters had made her learn how to read the stars and maps to better find her way again and stay on course.

One Sister who was a known pessimist had taught her what she knew about foraging safely and had gotten a local man who sometimes did hard labor and odd jobs around the orphanage to teach her some basic hunting. The Sister reasoned that, even if Deirdre got lost for weeks or months, she'd still be able to survive that way. Mother Superior was less than thrilled but had relented when Deirdre proved an able and quick learner in these fields.

A few hours later as they continued their hike, the trees and vibrant fields fell away to almost entirely bare land, full of more weeds than any other plants, scattered with an increasing number of discarded vehicles, some of which seemed relatively new. Realizing they were close to the city, Deirdre kept her eyes dead ahead, curious to see what it looked like. She knew old London had been obliterated to a degree by the bomb, but apparently there were many ruins left behind, looking extremely old even though it had only been less than half a century.

Perhaps sensing her anticipation, James pointed to the rise before them. "We should be able to see it soon, over this hill."

"Come on then!" Deirdre waved him forward excitedly, beginning to run straight up the small hill. He followed at an infuriatingly slow pace; she didn't wait for him but charged right to the top.

The sparse trees that dotted the land behind them completely fell away. Before them lay the grey and black ruins of the city, stretched out farther than her eye could see. Some of the rubble was clearly old buildings, looking like they had been cut in half or had their top stories roughly torn away. But most of it blended together in a sea of jagged, giant ridges of stone and steel, casting shadows on the forsaken web of streets and alleyways.

Deirdre shook her head at the city. "What a sight. That's hideous."

James finally made it up the hill, and as he stepped beside her, the sound of crumbling dirt reached her ears. She looked around, confused; suddenly the ground beneath them shifted. She looked down just as the dirt between them split, the earth cracking wide open. There was barely any time to even yell in alarm before the ground completely caved, sucking them both down inside a dark hole.

Plummeting down, she screamed, wildly grabbing, hoping to somehow stop her fall, only to collide with the hard ground below. Her backpack broke her fall, and her curly hair cushioned her head just enough so it didn't collide with the ground directly. But she was winded and lay there for several moments before slowly rolling onto her side, coughing.

Her gaze fell on James, who was already on his hands and knees, preparing to stand again—he had fallen on a pile of thick, discarded, filthy tarps and was white and shaking with shock, but uninjured.

After sitting up, she still asked, "You all right?"

"Y-yeah, the tarps..." He gestured to them. "I'm fine. Lucky they were there."

Deirdre let out a short, delirious giggle. "Lucky for sure!" She looked around them at the darkness, illuminated only by the light far above them from where they fell. "What is this, some sort of cave?"

"No, look at those rails." She followed James's pointed finger slightly down the cave; they were partially broken and very rusty, but there were two thick rails spaced far apart, bolted down onto thick wooden planks.

"Railroad tracks?" she wondered aloud.

"The London Underground." James gestured at the cave around them, a small grin appearing on his face. "We must have fallen into an outer tunnel of the old city!"

"Oh." She scrunched up her nose at the darkness, then looked back up. "Well, let's get out of here."

He stared at her, looking up at the hole in the Underground ceiling, a good fifteen feet above them. "I-I can't reach all the way up there."

"Sure you can! We can pile up those tarps you fell on and get back up."

He looked at the tarps and then at everything else in the area they had to use, slowly starting to shake his head. "I don't know."

"Oh, don't be so pessimistic!" She pushed past him, grabbing the bottommost tarp, trying to drag them all in one go. They didn't budge. Then she tried the top two, then was forced to pick up the topmost one. It was still immensely thick and heavy, and she grunted with the effort as she dragged it.

"Do you want me to help?" James asked when she was nearly finished.

"No!" She threw the tarp underneath the hole with a shout of exertion (and anger at the tarp for being so difficult). "See? We can do it!"

He didn't reply, and after she dragged the second tarp and stacked it, her back was starting to hurt. Plus now that she looked at the two piled up, they really weren't going to give them that much height. Standing back and judging, she realized that, even if she got James on top of all the tarps and gave him a boost, he still wouldn't be able to reach the hole.

She slumped her shoulders in defeat. "I guess we'll go through the cave."

"Tunnel," James immediately corrected.

"Yeah, fine."

After she pulled out her green torch, they began to head through the tunnels. Luckily, the path was mostly clear, and Deirdre first stuck to one wall, thinking that it'd eventually lead them to an exit. But as the minutes stretched on by and the tunnels led them through twists and turns, she began to wonder if they had already gotten lost somehow.

Of course, I have no idea where we're going anyway, she thought with a sigh. She shone the light squarely in the center of the path, trying to forget the walls all around them.

The silence grew thick and deep, and desperate to break it, she asked, "So, James, you're looking for your mum. What is your dad like again?" She remembered what he said yesterday about his father maybe tearing some pages out of a book and flinched; maybe asking about him wasn't a good idea.

James leaped over a chunk of rubble haphazardly in the dark, straying ahead of her slightly. He kicked at a rock and sent it skittering across the ground. The sound echoed through the tunnel like a shout.

Deirdre was about to apologize for bringing it up when James suddenly said, "There isn't much to know. He's a general in the Iron Guard. That's all I know about him anyway."

"A general? Are there a lot of Iron Guard generals?"

"Just two, my father and General Windsor."

She stopped in her tracks, sucking in her breath. "Is your last name Callaghan? Is your dad Alan Callaghan?"

James sighed. "So you've heard of him then? He's a bit of a celebrity outside Neo-London, at least. He has been on the radio before."

"I didn't know that. He... he funds Trinity."

James nodded like he already knew. "Yeah. I thought so."

She bit down on her bottom lip. Her automatic impulse was to tell him everything. But they were related, and Deirdre felt she didn't know how families worked, not really. What if James just came with her because his father told him to so he could find her and put her back in jail?

And James didn't want to come onto the Trinity grounds, she remembered. What if it wasn't because he was shy? What if he was scared that Mother might recognize him and that she'd know what he was up to? Ooooh, I don't know! I believe his story about him going to find his mother... but still...

She let out a very loud sigh, which echoed back loudly all throughout the tunnels. It reminded her just how small the space was, and she shrunk down, holding the torch close, as if to make herself smaller.

"Did you meet him when you were at Trinity? He goes there sometimes to check up on everything." James scoffed. "One time he did show us the boys' orphanage. Iain tried to convince me Dad was going to leave me—" James inhaled sharply. "I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to joke about..."

She didn't even hear him; her mind was racing aimlessly, trying to decide what to do, and the walls around her just seemed to grow closer and closer in the darkness with each second.

Eventually James offered to hold the torch for a while. And he had no trouble shining the light all over the place; even though they had been here for a while, he still seemed quite interested by it all. Her skin crawled every time she glimpsed the ceiling or the walls, and the air began to get stuffier and stuffier. Soon she was fanning herself, even though James was still bundled up in his jacket.

"Why would they make this stupid tunnel so narrow here?" she whispered so it wouldn't echo, glaring at the walls.

"It's the same, it had to be, because of the cars that I was telling you about," James said.

She looked back at him. "You were? Sorry... I didn't hear you. I guess sound doesn't travel well in a place like this. Or something."

After a moment, James asked, "Deirdre, do you know anything about the London tube system?"

"Not a thing."

"In that case, I... I studied the layout of old London, the blueprints and all. And these tunnels all had maps every so often inside them; we should be able to find one..." He trailed off, walking back the way they came in the dark, eventually shining the green light on a broad, old map in the wall. "Right here. I think we can use it to get out." He looked at her, his eyes unsure, waiting for confirmation.

Her mouth fell open. "You knew these maps were here? Why didn't you say anything ten minutes ago?"

"Well, I just figured... you seemed to know where you were headed—"

Deirdre rapped the top of his head smartly with her knuckles. "Even so! A map would have been useful! Next time just say something, all right?"

He immediately nodded, rubbing his head, muttering something about her being worse than his brother. Sincerely hoping he had learned his lesson, she helped him look for their location on the map, and they headed toward the nearest exit.

The first exit was caved in, so they went to the next, which was dark and dusty but wide open. Once they spotted the stairs leading up, Deirdre sprinted for them, wanting nothing more than to see the sky again. James kept on her heels at first, though she outpaced him up the three flights of twisting stairs. But at the top she screeched to a halt.

They were inside the old city. The ruined buildings surrounding them were but hollow skeletons of their former selves, either worn down or looming above like silent watchers. The streets were dusty, even though a light fog was rolling in, turning the sky white. The sun was still shining, but there was no way of telling where, exactly, its position was.

James caught up with her, taking a moment to recover before pointing at what used to be an elephant statue, saying, "We're in south London. We're... not too far off course."

"Good." She adjusted her grip on her backpack, looking at James. "Let's get out of here as soon as we can. Are you ready to move?"

He raised a hand, saying, "Half a minute," and then promptly sat down on a nearby, half-broken bench, still steadying his breath.

She was about to join him, but the distant sound of rocks shifting reached her ears. Looking all around, she saw nothing, save for the empty buildings and fog. It was completely quiet again, a big difference from the natural noise in the country and then her heart beating loudly in her ears underground.

"I don't like this," she whispered, slowly turning around in circles, looking for a sign of any movement.

James sat up straight, frowning both directions down the road. "Everything looks fine."

"I heard something. I..." She bit her lip. The sound came again, rocks and pebbles moving. At first it was too quiet; it could have just been the wind. But then she recognized it: it was the same sound as someone walking down a gravel road. And it was getting louder.

Clearly hearing it too, James stood up, also searching, whispering, "Faeries don't come out of the city center. And they don't come inside the city. That's what my father said..."

They kept looking, listening for what felt like nearly half an hour until Deirdre spotted a dark shape in the fog, headed toward them. She tugged on James's sleeve to get his attention.

"What's the best way to deal with evil faeries?" she whispered. "Do we run? Play dead? Or what? James?" She looked at him; he was staring, his face pale. But then he squinted, making out the figure.

"Oh, hell."

Deirdre looked back, ready for anything—except to see Iain emerge from the fog.

She straightened, remembering her conversation with James in the tunnel. Iain Callaghan... how in the world did he find us? Even if James isn't working for Alan, I bet Iain is... Or maybe James told Iain we'd be here? She glanced at James, suddenly feeling trapped.

Looking back at Iain, she caught her breath, noticing the blood splatters all over his jacket.

He didn't seem to notice her; brushing past her, he ran up to James, practically slamming into him as he pulled him into an embrace. The younger brother, sputtering in alarm, shoved him away with as much force as he could muster. Iain stumbled back, seeming dazed, his eyes widening as he looked down and spotted the dark bloodstains on his clothes as if for the first time.

James weakly lifted his hand as if to reach over and try to wipe the blood away. "Iain, you... you're covered in blood!"

"It's not mine," Iain answered, his voice thick.

"Then, uh, whose is it? And why are you here, for that matter? How did you find us?"

Iain didn't answer; his gaze fell on Deirdre, who stiffened, standing up straighter, squaring her shoulders.

He's here because Alan sent him. He came after me... It's just like Mother said.

He held out one hand to stop her, reaching down and pulling a pair of dark handcuffs off his belt with the other. "You step away from him, and you put these on. Got it?"

She stepped back. She was right.

With a bout of nervous laughter, James burst out, "What are you doing? Arresting her because I ran away?"

Iain's face twitched, as if stung, but he still pressed. "So you've left of your own accord then? You've left Dad and me to worry about you for the rest of our lives?"

James folded his arms defiantly across his chest. "Like Dad would've worried."

"When you vanish in the middle of an attack on the city, that's the cause of some worry, yeah. Philip Prance was worried enough to go after you."

Deirdre's eyes widened and her hands flew to her mouth. An attack on the city? Everything was fine when we left! And I didn't hear anything from the outside...

"The Fancy Prancer went looking for me?" James scoffed in disbelief, clearly finding the whole idea amusing. "Well, where is he then?"

"Philip is dead," Iain said.

As if unable to stand, James sank gingerly onto the bench, shaking his head.

"The king is dead." Iain thrust the cuffs toward Deirdre again, never taking his eyes off her. "You'll find out all about it when we get back to the city. They think some faery was involved. She's wanted as a suspect."

"Huh? The king is dead? That's... not possible..." Shaking her head and taking another step back, Deirdre stared down at the cuffs; her mind was racing, and now her senses were overloaded as she realized these cuffs were iron. They suddenly seemed like coiled snakes, ready to reach out and grab and bite her. Her throat went dry.

"We were long gone from the city before any—any attack happened. I was with her," James protested. "That makes no sense, Iain."

"Prove to James you're not a faery then," Iain prompted Deirdre knowingly. "Show him you've no aversion to iron. Prove you're not a threat." As an afterthought, Iain sighed wearily and added, "It'll be better for you if I don't have to force them on you. Please."

When Deirdre only stared, body and mind paralyzed, he stepped closer toward her. He reached down to grab her arms and cuff them, but she jumped back, her eyes fixed on him.

"You're mad," she hissed, glaring at him. "I wasn't there. And I didn't kill the king! I don't care what Alan told you, but I wouldn't do anything like that. You're insane!"

Iain stared at her wildly. "How'd you know about Alan?" he asked. "How would you know, unless you were working with him?"

"What the hell is going on?" James asked, nearly shouting. "What do you mean she's working with Dad?"

"Watch your mouth." Iain shot him a look at his language.

"That's all you can say?" James was on his feet again. "Unbelievable!"

Clenching her jaw, Deirdre turned her glare on the cuffs. Why should I be afraid of them? Iron can't hurt humans! And... maybe I am a faery, but— No, it can't be true! It just can't! I've lived and grown up as a normal person! More or less anyway. Ugh... what should I do?

"I still don't think I'm a faery. But fine." She held out her wrists to Iain.

Staying still was harder than she anticipated while he restrained her. She screwed her eyes shut, cringing as the iron nipped and bit at her, growing tighter and tighter by the second, constricting. Iain closed the cuffs around her wrists and lowered them. They began to burn, and she bit down hard on her lip to stifle a cry of pain.

James noticed, and he stood up, stepping over to her. "Iain, stop! You're hurting her!"

Iain said nothing.

As if struck with a sudden realization, James's eyes lit up. "That explains it," he said, addressing her. "That explains your magic at the faery ring. You've got to be at least half faery!" He then began to fumble through his backpack, pulling out several books and thumbing through them frantically.

She softly groaned in pain and aggravation, shooting a glare at James.

Iain raised an eyebrow, looking incredulously to Deirdre. "I'm surprised you haven't taken him back yet. Bit of a handful, yeah? I hope he gave you a hard time."

She hardly heard him. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead as the sharp, scraping, blistering sensation of the iron began to crawl up her arms and into her shoulders. Along with it, she could hear many small voices whispering about going up and pinching her eyes out. Her chin began to quiver.

She looked up, about to ask Iain if he didn't possibly change his mind about this whole handcuff business, when the iron's voices were drowned by a faint, almost musical sound in the air. It echoed oddly through the ruins, like a bird's song. She glanced around; it was impossible to tell which way the whistling was coming from.

Iain had heard it too; he was pulling his firearm from the holster on his belt. James looked up from his reading, noticing what his brother was doing; he promptly dropped the book and gaped stupidly. Iain grabbed his arm and began to walk fast, jerking his head for her to follow. James only protested for a moment before Iain halted him with a venomous look.

"Stay quiet, both of you." Iain hissed. "We've got to find someplace to hide."

"Why?" James asked, so quiet Deirdre could barely hear him.

"Just listen to me, and hopefully you'll not find out why." Iain pointed toward an empty shell of a building on the other side of the street. "We'll hide there. Hopefully it'll just pass us over. Unless it's on the redhead's side." He gave her a cheerless smile. "Then we're all royally screwed."

Deirdre stumbled as she followed him, her whole body feeling stiff and brittle, the hot pain turning into a piercing sensation that dug into and through her bones. The iron's voices were louder now, talking about paralyzing her once they got to the back of her neck. Or maybe crushing her spine instead.

She shivered, trying to fight back tears of panic as the veins on her wrists and arms began to turn from blue to black.

I can't handle this. I can't handle this!

As soon as they ducked inside the empty building, hiding behind a fallen pillar, she threw pride to the winds and begged Iain, "Please take these off, please. I can't stand it anymore!" He shushed her, but she continued, "I don't care if I'm a faery or half faery or anything! Just take them off! Please! They'll break me!"

"Just be quiet!" he hissed. He sounded more scared than angry. The whistling sound came again, along with the booming sound of large, off-pace footsteps getting closer.

She hardly noticed, shoving the handcuffs in his face. "I won't be quiet until you take them off!"

Seething, he pulled out the key and unlocked the cuffs. If he hadn't taken them to put them back on his belt, she would have flung them as far as possible, regardless of whoever or whatever heard or saw them. Letting out a sigh of relief, she leaned back against the ruined pillar, shutting her eyes, hugging her hands and wrists under her arms as if they were cold. Her entire body was shaking.

Now the loud thudding echoed through the empty building; she opened her eyes, looking around, seeing nothing but the dark, dusty ruins, light flooding in from the entrance behind them on the other side of the pillar. The thudding sound came once more; she turned and slowly rose up on her knees, peeking over the top of the pillar. James did the same, despite Iain hissing at the both of them to get down.

The thudding was the same as last night, when they saw the one-eyed monster.

Please don't let it be a Fachan. Please, please...

The thudding grew louder still, making the pebbles on the ground quake and light dust fall from the ceiling. Then, through the wide, empty doorway and the ruined, large, glassless windows surrounding it, a creature lumbered into view, hopping on its only leg, its large eye fixed dead ahead, away from them.

She and James both recognized it, and he whispered just before she could, "It's a Fachan."

The creature was not moving. Its large hand clenched the thick chain; the metal was splattered with blood. Its pupil began to swivel around, though apparently not spotting them. She held her breath, lowering farther until she could barely see over the pillar. James was kneeling still, watching it; Iain had his gun in both hands, ready.

The Fachan then sniffed loudly, its large red eye going still, then abruptly fixing on them. She sucked in her breath, unable to even blink with terror, though an unhelpful thought popped into her head: this is what a frog must feel like when it locked eyes with a snake.

The monster then bared its enormous teeth, raising its chain whip; promptly Iain swung his gun around and fired at it. He shot it in its gigantic eye, making it howl with pain and recoil.

"Run!" Iain shouted.

Deirdre jumped up, pulling on James's elbow—it was like pulling on a sack of cement. He was pale and frozen, staring at the staggering monster, his limbs locked in place.

"James, up! Move!" Iain grabbed him under the arm and hauled him up, and they began to make for the exit, James moving as easily as a sailor just stepping off a boat.

The Fachan's eye narrowed and fixed on the boys—fixed on Iain. It swung its powerful arm around, the chain whistling through the air. Deirdre's cry of warning was muted by it slicing through a stone pillar, whipping toward him. Iain shoved James away and dropped to the ground, but not quite fast enough; the Fachan swung low enough to graze Iain's back, cutting it open quite neatly. James finally seemed to come to his senses, his eyes wide and alert with panic as he tried to scurry over and help his brother back to his feet. The Fachan swung its arm around again, opening its mouth expectantly, widening its gleaming eye.

It's ignoring me, Deirdre thought in the weird moment that she stood there, seeing everything as if watching something unreal. I could turn and go. It's just after Iain. I could leave them...

Gritting her teeth, Deirdre dropped her pack, pulled out her knife from its place on the side of her belt, flicked the blade out, and ran for the monster, screaming. She leaped and dug the knife down on the top of its one large foot, pushing with all her weight and strength. The creature yelped, more in surprise than in pain, and it jumped back, taking her knife with it, wedged deep in its flesh.

It growled at her, eye flashing. Rather than feeling afraid, she felt like her insides were on fire. The sky began to darken, as though night was falling.

She looked at it squarely in its glowing, bloodshot eye, shouting, "Drop your whip and leave us alone, you bloody freak!"

In response, it just raised the chain, ready to strike again. Her hands felt aflame again, and she suddenly felt like that chain—soaked with blood both dried hard and dripping hot—was the source of all her troubles.

Not noticing it was dark as night, she pointed at the Fachan. "Drop that chain. NOW!"

For a split second the monster seemed to sneer. Then its eye widened in alarm as the tips of its fingers began to go black, and the chain began to rust. It held up its fist dumbly, staring as the chain turned brown, starting to corrode, while the blackness crept up its fingers and into its fist. There was the distinct, pungent smell of rotting flesh.

Letting out a howl of fear, the Fachan dropped the chain but did not miss a beat—it twisted and lunged mouth-first, its jaws open wide, teeth bared, reaching for her.

Fear only sharpened her anger, and even as she jumped out of the way, she screamed at it, "Leave! LEAVE US ALONE!"

The Fachan, pushing itself back up, gurgled in horror as the rotten blackness erupted all over its body. It turned to charge her again, but a dark shadow fell over its large eye, completely blinding it. It still lunged, biting at her, but missed by a yard. Deirdre stumbled back, still hot with anger but beginning to shake, wishing this was all over.

Obediently the rotten patches spread, quick as lightning; the Fachan barely had time to writhe or cry out in pain before even its eye decayed. It let out one last breath, hollow, rank, and weak, then it lay before them, a corpse both new and rotted.

Deirdre stared at it for a moment; as her body began to cool, she spotted the knife, still in the creature's foot, completely unaffected by the decaying. She reached down, her head and vision reeling, and pulled it out—it slid out quite easily—and she returned to her pack, cleaning the little blood from the blade on the bottom of it. Beginning to feel cold and heavy, she slid her knife back in its sheath. Looking up, she saw James and Iain, standing, retreated to the other side of the street. The darkness was lifting fast, and she could see that even Iain's swarthy face was pale, his eyes wide, staring at her as if she were going to spontaneously explode any second.

Beginning to sway where she stood, she pointed at them, saying in a slightly slurred voice, "You know, I think I really am a faery."

Before either of them could respond, her legs gave out from under her, and she fell to the ground. Her last thought was realizing that her mouth was hanging open dumbly, but she was too tired to shut it.

Chapter Nineteen

The brothers had carried Deirdre away from the corpse of the Fachan and to a more secure location; at least Iain had claimed the abandoned, ivy-choked, rusted double-decker bus was a prime location to rest for a while, though James thought he was only trying to make him feel safer. James did not protest, eager to leave the carnage behind. He had been waiting to see magic like that in action his entire life, but he found he wasn't as keen on lingering around the aftermath.

They had decided to stay there for the night. James's sleep was fitful, but he knew his brother's sleep was even worse, if he had slept at all. Iain had sat on the bus's steps with his firearm at the ready, keeping watch for most of the night while James and Deirdre slept. Even when James had gotten up to take his turn, Iain had only partially agreed and had stayed close and watchful, leaning against the driver's seat on the floor.

That morning, Deirdre had still barely stirred. Iain and James sat across from each other on the nearly gutted bus seats, quiet. James knew that, like him, Iain was wondering if she would ever recover.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" James asked, twisting his fingers together anxiously.

Iain nodded. "She probably just wore herself out. Nothing a good, long rest won't cure."

As James looked at Deirdre lying still and gently breathing on the floor where they'd moved her (one of James's extra sweaters serving as a pillow) and then to his blank-faced, bloodstained older brother hunkered across from him, James truly longed for one moment to be back in his city, in his home, in his own bed.

I want to go home.

The thought was fleeting, gone in an instant.

Iain's breathing hitched in pain, shaking James from his thoughts. He watched Iain twist around in his seat and start shrugging out of his jacket. James went over to help. At first Iain pulled away, but then he relented. Under the jacket, Iain's undershirt was torn and caked with blood.

"Sick!" James exclaimed with both disgust and awe. "He got you good. It'll probably look cool, though, as a scar."

"That's good to hear."

"We ought to have mended this last night though," James commented, making a face. "Now it's all crusty and gross."

"There's a kit in my bag. Just slap a bandage over it, will you?" Iain asked shakily.

James remarked that a bandage wouldn't do much to stave off infection and that there was no telling how many microbes were crusted onto the Fachan's chain and that he really should seek a medical professional instead of his brother to help him. He'd read books on different types of bacteria.

After a minute of arguing back and forth, James convinced his brother to at least let him rinse the wound with water from his canteen first. Iain gripped the seat in front of him, knuckles blanching, as James poured the whole of his water bottle onto Iain's back. James hissed in sympathy, though his brother made no sound.

"How did Prance—how did he die?"

Iain stared unblinkingly at the seat in front of him. He began to pick absently at the ragged fabric, James's question seemingly going unheard.

James's stomach dropped. "It wasn't because of me, was it?"

"That monster killed him." His voice was flat. When James began to ask again if he was the reason, Iain interrupted him. His voice sounded clearer, and his eyes were more present. "He knew what he signed on for by joining the Iron Guard. We all did. That type of thinking has no purpose, and it isn't productive. Understand?"

James nodded, his throat tightening. Iain sounded just like their father. Normally, such a comparison would make James worry, but this time he was glad. It was exactly what he needed to hear in the moment.

"Philip—he told me something about Dad." Iain twisted around to face him, leaning forward so that they were at eye level. "I don't see a point in hiding it from you. You deserve to know."

James listened carefully as Iain told him everything he knew, everything that Philip had told him about Boyd and their father and about how Deirdre was implicated in the attack as well. As he listened, James produced his notebook and began to write every detail down to keep track of everything.

"You're... taking this well," Iain commented, watching him closely. "Keep in mind that we don't know anything for certain. It's all hearsay."

James nodded. He knew he should probably be more shocked or disturbed at the accusations thrown at his own father, but he had always felt he was able to see their father with more clarity than Iain, even though Iain was able to understand people in a way that baffled James.

"What are you going to do about it?" James asked.

"I don't know if there's anything I can do about it," Iain admitted quietly.

Deirdre murmured something unintelligible from the floor, and Iain's openness was snuffed out instantly. He straightened up, on his guard again. His hand went to the cuffs at his belt instinctively.

James was at her side in an instant, hoping she was finally waking. He knelt beside her and waited, willing her to be all right.

Iain was staring at him.

"That iron, um, really does hurt her," James mentioned. "She wasn't lying about that."

"I know." Iain sighed. He left the cuffs alone, thinking better of it. "But how else am I going to get her back to the city?"

James leaped from the floor, stepping in front of Deirdre's sleeping form as if to hide her from view. "We're not going back," he said. "We've made it on our own this far. She has to find her family."

"I have orders to follow. Whether General Callaghan is committing treason or not, it's not just his orders I'm meant to follow. The whole Iron Guard thinks she's partly responsible, and I can't just ignore that."

"I'm not going back. I have nothing— I have no reason to go back."

Iain bowed his head. "Listen, I know things weren't that great sometimes, but things will be better now. I promise. The city's our home, yeah? It's where we belong."

"You think we belong there, with Dad?" James asked, his voice rising. "With the Iron Wardens, the people who chased Mum's family out of the city? With Elaine?" He knew the last name stung more than it was intended to but pressed on. "Name one time anyone in Neo-London made us feel like we belonged or treated us kindly or brought anything good into our lives. Go on."

Iain's eyes flashed, but he said nothing.

James stubbornly faced the breaker waves of guilt that threatened to crash toward him. He looked down at Deirdre again. "She didn't do anything wrong, and she certainly didn't plan any attack. I was with her the whole time."

When Iain was about to respond, James said, "She's the nicest person I've ever met, faery or not."

"That may be the case, but she needs to be questioned by the Iron Guard, regardless."

James scoffed. "Since when has any faery got a fair trial in Neo-London?"

"She could be dangerous." He jabbed his finger in the direction where they'd just come from for emphasis. "You saw what she did to that thing."

"Um, yes, I saw what she did. I saw her saving our lives. I saw her charge a creature to defend us with only a knife." James's voice grew louder, and he found himself unable to control his volume. "Look at her. She could be dying or sick, or something, all because she saved us!"

"What she did was brave, and I'm glad she did it. That monster deserved to rot for what it did." Iain's voice was laced with anger. "But that doesn't change anything."

James knew he had the advantage in their argument. "Why would she save our lives if she's guilty? Wouldn't it have been easier to just let us die?"

"I don't know," Iain ground out.

"She's only used her magic when she or I were in trouble. She already saved my life once before. Why would she—"

"I don't know!" Iain shot up from his seat, pushing past James, stepping carefully around Deirdre. "I don't bloody know why she would save our lives. She should have just got out of the way. I don't know why anyone would..." He stopped in the aisle, his back to James. "I don't know anything right now."

A thick silence fell between them. James knew it was his only chance to talk some sense into his brother. He had to think hard about what he wanted to say.

"Do you honestly think she did it—killed the king, I mean?" James asked. "You're good at reading people, how they think, what they're really like. Do you really think she could do it?"

"I only know what I've been told."

"But what do you think?"

"I can't trust anything but what I've been told. What I think doesn't really matter in this situation."

"But you're good at—"

"No, I'm not." There was so much more that Iain wanted to say, James sensed, but he knew that was all he was going to get.

"She won't be treated fairly, and you know it," James said. "Especially after what you said, that the Iron Guard has taken over."

He knew that his brother still cared like he used to. He knew that, despite how hardened and rough he'd had to become just to survive in Neo-London, the version of him that honestly wanted to help was still present. He saw glimpses of the person he used to want to be like, the brother he'd looked up to nearly his whole life.

"The city isn't safe. It's not safe for her, and it's not safe for you either." Iain turned around in the aisle to face him tiredly. "But it's got to be safer than wandering out here without a purpose."

"It's not without a purpose," James said. "Deirdre and I are both looking for our families."

That's when James reached for his pack and produced the letters. Iain's eyes lit up in recognition as James held out the parchment to him.

"Marko's letters."

"Mum's letters," James corrected him. He unfolded the paper, holding it out for Iain to see. He trailed his finger under the words, pointing them out. "Look at the lettering and the little drawings. It's from her."

"I didn't take them," Iain whispered, his mouth falling open in realization. "They're from her, and I didn't..."

James offered him a small smile. "It's okay. I took them. What matters is that we have them now."

James watched as Iain read the letter. Once. Twice. He read it through thoroughly, taking his time. He murmured something under his breath in their Romani language that James didn't understand but thought might be a prayer or maybe more of a plea. He stared at James stupidly, wordlessly.

Just say something, James willed him. Get angry, or say it's not true, even. Just say something!

"What, uh, do you think?" James asked nervously.

"This is why you left, isn't it?" Iain lowered himself to sit on one of the seats again, the letter still grasped tightly in his hands. "Marko was trying to warn us, but I didn't listen. God, why didn't I listen?"

James bit his lip, thinking that now was not the best time to tell Iain about what Marko had done for him and how their father had chased him away the first time. He sat down next to Iain.

In the silence that followed, James focused on Deirdre lying on the ground, suddenly unable to look Iain in the face. His throat felt tight. As skeptical and cautious as he knew Iain to be around the subject of magic, James was afraid of what Iain would think of him after reading the letter, learning that he was marked.

Before Iain could answer him, Deirdre began to wake, sitting up slowly on the ground. She groggily attempted to pull a strand of hair that was plastered to her face from across her mouth.

Iain watched her closely, handing the letter to James. "Let's get her up and moving." He nodded to the letter in his hand. "And put that away for now, yeah?"

"But, Iain—"

"We'll talk about it later."

James gaped at him, heat swirling in his chest.

He's just going to ignore everything like he always does. He's just going to run away from the truth.

His resolve was leaden. There was nothing and no one that could force him to go back to Neo-London now, no matter what Iain decided. He figured his father could send the entire army after him, and it would still do nothing to sway him. He wouldn't go back just so everything could go wrong again, to be trapped.

He wouldn't let Deirdre give up so easily either.

We're running away.

This time he acknowledged what he was doing and accepted it for what it was. He was running away, but it wasn't like how Iain ran away by slowly poisoning himself with Pan to escape from a place and a reality they both resented. James would be doing something tangible and real.

He decided they would leave that night.

* * *

Deirdre was awoken first by James speaking faintly, as if in the distance, then the brusquer, closer sound of Iain saying, "Do you think you're ready to keep going? We need to get out of here."

Forcing her eyes open, she found everything in sight was a big blur. Her entire body felt drained and stiff, and her arms shook weakly as she pushed herself to sit up. When Iain insisted they travel out of the city and to the nearest town immediately, she did not protest or ask any questions. She could hardly think straight, and when James asked her if she was feeling all right, she opted to nod instead of speak. Speaking seemed too hard right now.

They headed out of the old bus, Deirdre missing the step down and slipping onto the pavement. James hurriedly helped her up, and she could barely smile in thanks. As they continued, she hung on James's arm, her limbs light and wobbly, her head spinning. A couple of times Iain grabbed on to her arm to steady her when she caught her foot and nearly tripped over the rubble.

When they neared the end of old London, and the city center far behind them, her vision was clear and she took several deep breaths. Realizing just how hard she was holding on to James's arm, she let go. When he asked again if she was all right, she grinned weakly and managed to say, "Just fine," and then started walking ahead (more or less) steadily. Iain kept pace with her still; she wondered if it was to help her in case she slipped again or to just keep an eye on her.

Probably the latter, she thought with a sigh. It all makes sense though... He didn't deny Alan sent him after me. That must be why he's here.

She glanced over at him; he met her gaze, sharp as a hawk. Quickly she looked back ahead.

It makes sense. He came after me, and James, because his father sent him... but now what? We're not headed back down south. Is he really going to turn me in? I'm not a criminal! And I'm...

Looking down, she traced where the iron cuffs had been on her wrists and then rubbed her fingertips together, remembering how the magic had felt in them. I am a faery. Or half faery, or something. And that magic... She gulped. It wasn't pretty. And neither was anything I've done before. This magic isn't quite like anything James described to me or anything I've read about. Is that maybe why my parents gave me up? Because my magic was bad somehow?

James broke the silence, asking, "Where are we going?"

Iain turned to look at them. "I don't know yet," he admitted.

"Well, are we going back to Neo-London then?" James questioned. Before Iain could answer, James asked, more intently this time, "Are we going to find Mum?"

"I dunno, James. I just— I need to think, yeah?" Iain removed his beret and ran his hands through his hair. "There's some things we need to discuss first."

"Like what?"

"I need to talk to Deirdre, for one thing."

"But then we'll look for Mum, right?"

"I don't know. I guess I never fancied the idea of looking for someone who couldn't be found or didn't want to be found."

Deirdre looked at him, eyebrows raised. Of all the things she had expected him to say, that wasn't one of them.

It's just like my parents and me...

Suddenly Iain's radio buzzed to life, and a familiar voice broke through, though it was distorted by static: "—progress have you made? Have you found James and the girl?"

James's brow furrowed, and he said what Deirdre suspected: "It's Dad." Then he reached out for the radio as Iain removed it from his belt. "Don't answer him. You can't tell him, Iain. We're not going back to Neo-London."

Iain started at the radio in his hand, swallowing hard.

"Iain, just give it to me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Iain scoffed, regaining his composure. "I've got to answer." Then he began to veer off the road away from them, taking the radio with him.

Once he was probably out of earshot, James sidled over to Deirdre and whispered, "We're not going to go back to the city."

Her head suddenly spun, and she staggered to the side. "I-I agree," was all she could manage in reply.

"When we get a chance... let's get away and head for the Summer Court."

"And look for your mum," Deirdre reminded him, looking him in the eye. "And..." She rubbed her forehead, feeling like there was something else bothering her about James, but it was at the edge of her memory and could not be recalled. "And whatever else we need to do."

He nodded. "Let's do it."

* * *

When Iain was certain he was out of earshot of the others, he hunkered down behind a dilapidated brick wall and produced his radio from his bag. For a flickering moment Iain hesitated before speaking. "General Callaghan, I've found James and the girl."

"Well done." General Callaghan's voice rang through the radio. "There are troops stationed in the Surrey Hills. Head back there. I'll let them know you're coming."

Iain expected the sensation of validation to wash over him. He hoped he had made the right decision, the right call, but the assurance never came, and he knew in his gut that he hadn't. "But I don't think she's guilty."

"It must be difficult to hear you. Are you in the middle of a bloody field or something?"

"The girl isn't guilty. I think she's been framed for the attack. And she didn't abduct James or anything. He left on his own." His voice was almost uncertain at first but grew in confidence as he went on, and he wondered how his father could sound so intimidating over a radio.

Iain's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of General Callaghan's voice on the other line, clear as a bell this time; it was exactly what he needed to hear to push all doubt from his mind. "Remember that Commander Prance died for this."

Philip.

The name came with flashes of red gore. A swollen face. A twitching hand going limp in his grasp.

And sounds. The whistling of a chain through the air. A shout followed by silence.

Philip had thought that Boyd and General Callaghan had known about the attack at the memorial in advance. If Philip had any kind of ill will or agenda when he told Iain all those things, Iain reasoned, then he wouldn't have died saving him.

This time when Iain spoke, his voice was firm and certain. "Philip told me what you did."

Iain released the talk button and waited. He had always thought he knew his father well, but now he was not so certain after what Philip had divulged to him. However, he did think he knew his father's nature well enough to know he'd get defensive even if he did not know what from.

After a while, General Callaghan's voice sounded again, slowly. "You will follow orders and bring that faery girl to me, or I'll have you tried for treason."

Iain stared at the radio, unflinching at the words. "It's true then," he murmured to himself, not pushing the talk button.

"Do you understand me?" General Callaghan demanded. "Don't let Prance's sacrifice be in vain."

"I won't. I promise you that." Iain shut off the radio.

When Iain returned, he saw Deirdre and James quickly retreat from where they had been sitting close together and obviously in deep discussion. James suddenly became preoccupied with fiddling with his notebook, and Deirdre avoided making eye contact, as subtle as a rockslide. When she started whistling, of all things, he might've scoffed if he could muster the energy and if the display wasn't so pitiful.

"Feeling any better?" Iain asked Deirdre.

She raised her eyebrows, a bit surprised, but nodded.

"That's good. Yeah."

James was staring at him, eyes narrowed. "I doubt she's feeling better enough to be dragged back to the city in chains."

Iain ignored him. "Listen," he said, focusing on Deirdre, "I need you to explain to me exactly what happened at the parade. Don't leave anything out."

"She already told you—"

This time Iain turned to James sharply. "James, I'm not talking to her as part of the Iron Guard now, all right? I need to know what happened. And I can't do that with you running your mouth. Now take a walk."

James looked between Deirdre and Iain for a moment before finally relenting. Slowly James stood to his feet and began to back away to a clearing with all the reverence of a guard dog. Iain might have been proud of James's devotion to his friend had it not been so irritating.

"Hey," Iain called after him, "don't go too far." Knowing James's luck, he'd wind up falling into a ditch.

Iain sat down on the ground with a groan. He kept ample space between Deirdre and himself, for her comfort as well as his own. "So," he asked, "what happened at the parade?"

She sat up straighter, stiff like a kid about to give her first oral report. "Well, I almost didn't get to the parade. I went shopping the afternoon before, and as I was leaving, these soldiers came and said I had to go with them... basically I was"—she gulped—"I was under arrest. I went with them because... I mean, it all seemed like a big mistake. The Irish soldier said so."

"Irish soldier?" Then he remembered what Philip had told him about Deirdre being arrested for suspicion of theft. "Go on then."

"I was there all night," Deirdre went on, "and then in the morning I managed to escape when I convinced a really tired old guard to let me use the loo. And I didn't hurt him or use magic or anything! I just got lucky. And he was pretty tired. Anyway, I managed to run out, and..." She shivered briefly. "One of them shot at me. I guess he thought I was a faery. I don't know... Then I managed to run away and get to the parade."

"They shot at you?" Iain asked incredulously, baffled.

Iain perhaps sounded too disbelieving, because before he could explain that his shock was at the guard for being so callous as to fire at an unarmed teenaged girl, Deirdre snapped, "Do you think I'm lying?"

"No, that's not what I— I didn't mean—" Iain fumbled uselessly at his words before giving up. "Just go on."

"I don't remember what time I got there... but I got there, and there was music playing and a crowd, and I remember seeing both faeries and humans there. So I crossed the street, and then I went over to this building... I think it was a store or something? I can't remember..." She sighed, then continued, "Anyway, I met James there. Then we walked down the alley and out of a smaller exit of the city and outside."

Iain nailed her with a skeptical look. "And?"

She frowned right back. "That was it. Honestly, nothing happened. It was just loud and noisy, but it was all normal. I wasn't even on that road long enough to do anything except meet up with James."

"So no one, faery or otherwise, approached you before the parade at any time about attacking the king or about anything else suspicious?"

She shook her head. "I didn't speak to anyone that morning after running out of the jail. Until I met James. And we talked, obviously, but that was it."

"Okay. That's good." Iain frowned thoughtfully. She didn't seem like she was playing him, but he had heard tell of faeries and their ability to deceive, though he had never seen evidence of this. It was more like a silly superstition than anything else.

"Why did you go with James?" Iain asked. "That didn't seem odd to you, a kid like him packing up and leaving during the start of a semester?"

"Yeah, it was weird. But he really wanted to do it, so I didn't want him to go alone. He's not experienced with camping, at all... I didn't want him to hurt himself or get lost." She giggled and added, "Or accidentally start a forest fire."

So she went with James to protect him...

Iain's expression slackened, and he glanced away, struck by her seeming concern for his brother, if it was genuine. He was also struck that she had sense enough to know how much trouble James could get himself into after only knowing him a few days.

When he looked up again, he met Deirdre's gaze steadily. "You mentioned General Callaghan like you knew him. Explain that to me."

"Alan Callaghan, right? I don't know him. I just ran into him once though." She sniffed and folded her arms. "I think he might've done it on purpose. I was shopping in the market by the city park, and as I was leaving he ran into me. He knew I was an orphan, and he asked if I needed help buying anything. I said I didn't, because it was really weird that he knew I was an orphan, and he didn't even explain himself or introduce himself or anything. Then he dropped a ring... I guess it was iron. I picked it up and put it back on a booth, then I left."

She shuddered. "It was creepy. And then I was talking with Mother Superior, and she said he had been there to look at my files and stuff. He suspected I was a faery, or at least part faery, I guess. And I'm pretty sure it's his fault I got locked up... They took me in right after I ran into him at the market." She shrugged, her expression sour.

Iain tensed as he listened, an angry heat rising in his chest. He planned on blaming her, locking her up for his crimes. Dévla... What kind of man does that?

He merely nodded in reply, taking in all the information.

"Thank you," he said quickly and stood. "Thanks for cooperating."

"Um... you're welcome." She smiled just a bit.

After calling James to come back, Iain turned to Deirdre again. "Deirdre," he said firmly and with sincerity, "I believe you." She looked up at him, her eyes bright. "But that doesn't really matter. What matters is this: I don't want my brother getting hurt, by accident or otherwise. And since you're a faery... I can't trust that won't happen."

She balled her fists. "I wouldn't ever—"

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

Deirdre's eyes narrowed. She looked at him the same way the faery and the human at the cottage had, the same way most people did. It shouldn't have felt any different—he shouldn't have felt anything, but he did, and it was shame. The feeling confused him.

She hesitated, then asked, "So you're not taking me back to the city?"

As James trudged up to them with a scowl on his face and his arms tightly crossed, Iain said firmly, "We're not going back to Neo-London."

Saying it out loud felt final and strange, when only hours ago he had been adamant about going back. He and Philip had been going to return together, to speak to General Windsor together. He'd made a promise to figure everything out once James was safe, but it wasn't one he was sure he would be able to keep even if he tried his hardest. He knew that Philip had picked the wrong person to help him.

James isn't safe yet, Iain reminded himself. He's not safe until we find Mum, until we find answers. Deirdre isn't safe yet either.

Once again, he thought of his mum's chilling words about James, about the dark magic that had ahold of him. That put everything in perspective. The only concern that should matter to him now was James's safety, and there was something out there that wanted to claim him. As long as that was true, James was in danger.

For the first time since she left, Iain was able to consider a different narrative than the one he'd accepted. Mum hadn't left because she was unhappy or because raising them was too difficult or to get away from their father. She had left to protect James. She may not have wanted them to find her, but he supposed that didn't matter anymore.

"We're going to find Mum," Iain announced.

James looked at him with an expression he hadn't seen in a while. Iain suspected it meant that James was surprised but also proud of him. "What made you change your mind?"

"You made a good argument, James." Iain took out his radio and then added, "Don't think that gives you permission to argue with everything I say."

"What're you doing with that?" James asked, pointing to the radio.

In answer, Iain chucked the radio in the opposite direction. It went quite far, disappearing into the brush.

"Wow, you have a really good arm!" Deirdre commented.

Iain murmured an awkward "thank you" before turning back to his younger brother. "Now they won't be able to track us."

"How would they track us?"

"There's a device in the radio that sends out the location—"

"Then why not just remove the device?" James asked.

Iain's face grew warm. "I have my reasons."

"Right. Is one of those reasons being a dramatic ninny?"

"I'll go and get it then."

"Good luck finding it."

"Hang on." Iain took one step in the direction of where he saw the radio vanish and then stopped. "I've just remembered something."

"What?"

"That I don't take orders from my cheeky little brother. You fetch it."

When James returned with the radio in hand a few minutes later, he looked too tired for any snarky remarks, which is exactly what Iain had been hoping for. The radio was undamaged, so James was able to remove the tracking device with little difficulty.

"The city isn't safe anymore. For any of us," Iain informed James and Deirdre. "They've imposed martial law." He paused, thinking. "I don't know if anywhere is safe, to be honest."

James got to work, showing Iain the maps he'd collected, different paths he'd swathed through scarcely populated areas with marker. He explained to Iain the several places on the map where Travellers set up camp.

"We'll keep going north then," Iain said, pointing to one of the circles on the map. "If Mum's family is still traveling, this is where they're most likely to be."

"What about Deirdre?" James asked after a minute of discussion. "She's got to get to the Summer Court."

Iain frowned. "Guess it'd probably be the safest place for you since you're one of them."

Deirdre laughed a bit wearily. "I don't know about that." When Iain looked at her, she continued, "I mean, sure yes, I'm a faery but... I don't think they're safe. Mother Superior told me to be careful."

"And the faery ring wasn't exactly safe either," James said in undertone, though he didn't sound quite as certain as Deirdre.

"Besides, I don't want to leave James just yet," Deirdre said, glancing at him. "I mean, I promised I would help you find your mum. And also... there was something else..." She frowned, trying to recall for a moment before her eyes lit up, and she continued more quickly, "You said something about being marked by magic or something? That sounded bad. You wanted help with that, right?"

Iain shot a look at James. "You've announced this to everyone in England then, as well?"

James shot a look right back. "I've just told Deirdre because I knew she would understand. She didn't flinch at it as much as you did."

"That's because—" Iain broke off, glancing at Deirdre. He lowered his voice. "It doesn't matter. Whatever it is, we won't flinch at it again. We're gonna figure it out, whatever dark magic it is."

Iain was about to suggest that they merely escort her to the nearest town on their way and find someone there to look after her or find her a job or find someone to take her to the Summer Court, make sure she was safe, when James spoke up.

"Finished." He held up the tracker, which reminded Iain a little of an insect with long, wiry metal legs.

Iain took it, then gestured for them all to get up. "Let's get a move on."

Deirdre jumped up immediately, wobbled a moment, then she and James began heading toward the trees. Iain looked down at the tracker in his hand, one last piece of his father's will, the way his father had planned this mission would go.

He flung it in a high arc back toward the ruins, not even watching to see where it would land before he turned and followed Deirdre and James into the woods.

Final Words

Dear reader, if you enjoyed this book, please leave a review. Thank you and happy reading!

Authors' Note

Some people are unaware that the Roma are not a fictional people associated with magic, but a historically displaced ethnic group who nowadays often don't travel in caravans or demonstrate many of the stereotypical elements one might associate with being Roma. The Roma are often viewed as mystical and romantic—something not quite of this world.

It could be argued that writing a book in which Romani people live in a magical world filled with faeries and other such beings might contribute to this image. However, we think that all groups should be welcome in fantasy, our favorite genre, without being reduced to a stereotype.

When possible, we have researched and checked facts and cultural references and have used the services of a Romani sensitivity reader to try to ensure cultural awareness and accuracy. However, we are human and thus may make mistakes. Some liberties have been taken with the Romani culture and other cultures for the sake of building the story world where magic and faeries are real. For instance, in the real world, magic is not considered marhime, and many Roma do not believe in magic at all. However, it made sense to us within the context of the story universe for magic to be considered marhime and taboo.

If you want to learn more about Romani culture, we suggest reading non-fiction and fiction books written by Romani authors.

Acknowledgments

Special thanks first, of course, to my very innovative and very patient friend and co-writer, K.C. Lannon. You were enthusiastic about this book every step of the way, and your persistence is exemplary! Thank you also for pushing the both of us out of our creative comfort zones; without that, I doubt we would have taken quite as many risks with this book.

Also many thanks to my family and friends for providing vital, initial feedback, especially my sister for urging us (i.e. yelling at us) to go the extra mile with the book's conclusion.

And thanks be to God, the author of life, who is the source of all the best creative inspiration, including sub-creations.

Last but not least, thank you for reading, dear reader! I hope you enjoyed the first step in this story, and that the rest of the series will take you on a happily unforgettable journey!

-M.C. Aquila

In writing this novel, I was able to reconnect to a lost part of myself—the childlike part that once believed in myths, legends, and faeries and dreamed of finding adventure. I was able to go on this magical journey with the help of some wonderful people.

Firstly, I need to acknowledge my friend and writing partner, M.C. Aquila. Thank you for plotting with me for hours until we were both aggrieved with headaches, drinking lots of tea at my house, making me laugh with your amazing sense of humor and comedic timing, and just putting up with me in general.

Thank you to Scar from Bohemiacademia for taking the time to read for cultural sensitivity and check for those pesky Americanisms. Your feedback was valuable, thoughtful, skillful, and greatly appreciated.

Thank you to Courtney Diles for editing. You are an inspirational person, a great writer, and a great editor.

Thank you to my family for cheering me on whenever I would tromp around the house in frustration or stumble in dazed like a zombie after a tiring writing session. Even though you had no idea what was going on, your encouragement was enough.

Thank you to my big sister for always looking out for me and believing in my vision. Also, thank you for exclaiming in surprise when I read one of the drafts out loud to you, "This sounds like a real book!"

I thank God for helping me through this process every step of the way. Without Him, my words mean nothing.

Finally, thank you to those who picked up this book. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.

\- K.C. Lannon 
