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  ‘Not at all,’ Rhosmari said. ‘We have as much to do as any faery on the mainland. We work and play and learn, we marry and raise children. And if we lack anything, we send out a party to visit the human world, and trade with them for whatever goods or knowledge we need.’

  ‘So you can come and go from the Green Isles whenever you please?’ asked Martin. ‘And talk to any other faeries you wish, even if they are not of your people?’

  Rhosmari hesitated.

  Martin gave a thin smile. ‘I didn’t think so. You Children of Rhys may think yourselves rich, but you lack the most important thing of all – freedom. You talk about how Rhys and the Stone rescued your people from bondage, but it seems to me that you only left one form of slavery for another. Even if your Elders do not hold your true names, they still control you, as surely as the Empress controls the rest of us.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ said Rhosmari, but even to her own ears the objection sounded weak, and she could think of nothing else to say.

  ‘This is not the first I have heard of your people, you know,’ Martin said. ‘Why do you think I went to Wales in the first place? I thought that if I could find the Children of Rhys, they might give me refuge from the Empress.’

  So the news of Linden and Timothy’s journey to the Green Isles had spread among the mainland faeries, and now they knew – roughly – where her people lived. Rhosmari’s fists clenched in the folds of her skirt. How long would it be before the Empress knew as well? Or had she already questioned Llinos, and found out everything?

  ‘But after what you have told me,’ Martin continued, ‘I think I will be better off here. And obviously your betrothed—’ He put a slight edge on the word— ‘felt the same, or he would not have left the Green Isles to join the rebellion.’

  ‘But you must understand,’ Rhosmari said, ‘that what Garan did caused great trouble for our people? And that we need the Stone, too?’

  Martin lay unmoving, his gaze distant. ‘I am not much concerned with that,’ he said at last. ‘I have my freedom already. You can sort that out with the rebels when we find them.’

  So he was not going to try to stop her, after all. Rhosmari exhaled, her tension draining away. If she had known it would end so well, she would have had this conversation with him days ago.

  ‘Well,’ said Martin. ‘You should sleep.’ He began to get up, but Rhosmari stopped him with a hand to his chest. His skin felt so hot, she feared he might be feverish – but then, she was more than a little flushed herself.

  ‘Lie down,’ she said. ‘You’re still weak, and you need the bed more than I do. I’ll sit up and watch, while you rest.’

  Martin frowned, as though about to protest. But then he took her hand from his chest, raised it to his mouth and kissed it. ‘As you will, lioness,’ he said, and closed his eyes.

  Rhosmari woke the next morning to the touch of sunlight on her face. She jumped up from her chair – only to stumble and almost collapse. Her foot had fallen asleep. She hopped over to the windowsill and leaned on it, flexing her toes to make the pins and needles go away.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispered to Martin, who had opened his eyes and was regarding her blearily. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’ Or doze off when she was supposed to be keeping watch, either. She could only hope he hadn’t noticed that.

  ‘No need to apologise,’ he said, sitting up and swinging his legs around. ‘I’ve rested long enough. It’s time we were on our way.’

  He moved more easily now, strength and energy returned. With a snap of his good arm he whisked the top sheet off the bed, and transformed it into a long-sleeved shirt. ‘Byrne let something slip last night, when he was taunting me,’ Martin added as he eased his bandaged arm into a sleeve. ‘About knowing where the rebels are. And I’m pretty sure I know the place he was talking about.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Rhosmari.

  ‘Waverley Hall, just south of London. It’s a human house, but there’s a wood nearby where the rebels could easily make camp.’ He shrugged his way into the rest of the shirt and began to button it closed. ‘I know it’s a risk. It might even be a trap. But I think it’s worth looking into.’

  Could the rebels be that easy to find? After days of fruitless hunting and running from the Blackwings, Rhosmari could scarcely believe it. And yet her heart beat a little faster, just the same.

  Martin muttered an oath. ‘I can’t get this button done,’ he said, flapping his loose right cuff at her. ‘Do you mind?’

  They had to travel three hours by train, then another by bus, and finally take a meandering walk along a footpath before they reached the grounds of Waverley Hall. But when Rhosmari caught sight of the house, her weariness vanished. It was as big as the Hall of Judgment, a size to command respect, and its red-gold brick made it warm and welcoming, even to a faery raised among white cottages and the sound of the sea.

  Yet as they walked up the drive, she noticed that the formal garden was not as well tended as it should have been. It was only March, so she knew not to expect many flowers, but still there was an unkempt look about it. Weeds had sprung up in the gravel, and the paths were littered with broken twigs and dead leaves.

  ‘Stop,’ said Martin. ‘Can you smell them?’

  Rhosmari inhaled, drawing deep of the fresh country air – and there it was, the tingling herbal scent that marked a faery presence. ‘Yes,’ she said, and broke into a smile.

  ‘I thought so,’ said Martin. ‘The wood, then.’ He started across the lawn, and with a glance around to be sure no one was watching, Rhosmari hurried after him.

  It was odd, how quiet this place was. She would have expected there to be at least one or two humans about, for a house and garden of this size must take a lot of care. But when she ventured to say so, Martin only shrugged.

  ‘Wealthy humans often go away for the winter,’ he said. ‘No doubt the owners will be back in a week or two.’

  She was following Martin along the back of the house when a little dog crawled out from behind the shrubbery. It was barrel-shaped, with sandy fur and a deeply wrinkled face, and when Rhosmari bent closer, two anxious brown eyes gazed back at her.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, and the dog waddled up and licked her fingers. Yet it was terribly thin for its round shape, its ribs showing through on both sides and its belly concave. She fingered the metal tag that hung from its collar and found it engraved with the dog’s name: ISADORA.

  ‘Martin?’ she called, but he had already vanished around the corner. She gave the dog an apologetic pat and hurried to catch up with him.

  ‘Where were you?’ he asked.

  Rhosmari explained about the dog, but he showed no surprise. ‘Dogs escape from their owners all the time,’ he said. ‘It likely broke its lead and ran off days ago, and only now decided it was hungry enough to come home.’

  It was hard for Rhosmari to imagine such a squat little dog running anywhere. But Martin was walking again, and there seemed no point in arguing with him.

  By the time they reached the edge of the wood, Rhosmari was tingling all over with anticipation – and anxiety. What if Garan was dead? Or, like Llinos, a slave of the Empress? At any moment one of the rebels would step out to greet them, and then she would know.

  But no one came. And though she and Martin crossed the wood from one side to the other and back again, there was no sign of a faery presence. In fact, the scent of them seemed to be fading, not getting stronger.

  ‘Stupid!’ exclaimed Martin, startling her. ‘I should have guessed. They’re not here at all. They’re in the house.’

  ‘In there?’ asked Rhosmari, frowning at Waverley Hall. The idea seemed ridiculous: even if the owners were in the habit of letting out rooms to strangers, the cost alone would make it impossible. After all, she had paid for only a few days’ food and lodging, and she had hardly any money left… Did she even know how much she had?

  Automatically Rhosmari slipped her hand into her skirt pocket. But when she pulled out th
e first bit of paper she found, it proved to be nothing but a narrow piece of card with one end torn. At first she was puzzled, and then she realised that it was her theatre ticket from last night. Except…that one had been blue, with the name of the play printed on it. And this was white, and blank.

  ‘The Oakenfolk are friendly with humans,’ said Martin, still looking at the house. ‘Perhaps they know the people who live here, and struck some kind of bargain—’

  ‘You lied to me.’ Rhosmari spoke flatly, the card clutched in her hand. ‘You’re a faery, and you lied. How is that possible?’

  ‘What?’ Martin rounded on her. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You told me the stage manager had given you the tickets. But the truth was, you never talked to him at all. That’s why you picked the worst seats in the theatre, to make sure no one would challenge us for them. Because you lied,’ and she flung the false ticket onto the ground between them.

  Martin’s brows crooked, as though she had troubled him. But when he spoke, his voice was cool. ‘So? You needed a distraction; I gave it to you. And the play was all the better for our presence, so you might well say we paid for it. But if you are so offended by a bit of harmless trickery, then by all means go back to Birmingham and settle the account to your satisfaction.’

  And with that he turned his back on her, and strode away.

  Rhosmari stood alone beneath the slow-dripping trees, her anger receding as she realised that he had a point. They had helped the actors by being there. Perhaps it was not the straight bargain she would have preferred, but Martin had obviously wanted her to see the play, and she had forced his hand by being so anxious over money. Which of them had shown the more generous spirit?

  And that reminded her of something Timothy had said to the Elders, when they refused to help any Oakenfolk who could not pass their test. What good are your laws, he had demanded, if they only help people who are perfect already? He had called the Children of Rhys self-righteous. And though Rhosmari still mistrusted humans in general, she was beginning to think that Timothy had been right.

  ‘Wait!’ she cried to Martin, but he did not look back. She ran to catch up with him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she panted. ‘I was just…surprised.’

  And she had been. In her experience, faeries could speak the truth in a misleading way, and some could even be sarcastic or facetious. But she had never guessed that any faery could lie outright. Perhaps Martin had learned it from his human friends… But that was not important now.

  ‘I know you meant to be kind,’ she said. ‘And you have been. It was ungracious of me to accuse you, especially after you risked your life for me last night. Will you forgive me?’

  For a moment Martin’s face remained expressionless, and she feared he would refuse. But then he nodded, and took her hand, and they walked back to the house together.

  ‘You should be the one to knock,’ said Martin, as they climbed the front steps. ‘If there are Children of Rhys among them, they will welcome you. Then I will wait until you convince them I can be trusted – that is, if you still think I can be.’

  There was a bitter twist to his last words, and Rhosmari flushed. ‘I trust you,’ she said with deliberate firmness, and then she took hold of the brass ring upon the door and knocked.

  At first there was no answer, and by the time the little dog came wheezing up the steps and collapsed beside her feet, Rhosmari was beginning to wonder if anyone had heard. She lifted the ring to knock again—

  The door creaked open, revealing a frail-looking human woman with cropped white hair. The dog scrambled towards her, but she stopped it with her foot and said politely, ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re looking for our friends,’ said Martin before Rhosmari could speak. ‘May we come in?’

  The woman frowned, and tilted her head to one side as though listening. Then she stepped back, motioning them to enter. ‘Is that your dog outside?’ asked Rhosmari, but their hostess had already shut the door.

  ‘This way,’ she said.

  The inside of Waverley Hall was as grand as the outside, with sumptuous carpets, soaring ceilings, and gilt-framed paintings hanging everywhere. But here, as in the garden, there was evidence of neglect: dust filmed the mirrors, and muddy smears streaked the marble floor. They walked through the entrance hall, the slight echo of their footsteps the only sound, then down a broad passageway to the foot of a staircase.

  ‘Up there in the study,’ said the woman. ‘The first set of double doors on your right.’

  Rhosmari glanced at Martin, who nodded at her to go first. Perhaps he was still unsure of his welcome, but she need have no such worries – especially not if Garan was waiting for her, as she prayed he would be. Taking a deep breath, Rhosmari put her hand on the stair rail and began to climb.

  On the wall to her right, as she ascended, hung a series of portraits: one richly dressed man after another, no doubt the former residents of the house. Each was marked with a brass plaque, which she could not help reading out of the corner of her eye: George Waverley, James Waverley, Philip Waverley—

  She stopped, startled. For a moment, Philip Waverley’s portrait had wavered, like a poorly maintained glamour. But when she touched the frame it felt solid, as no illusion could be…

  ‘Go on,’ said Martin impatiently from behind her. Embarrassed, Rhosmari hurried up the steps to the landing, then along the corridor to a handsome set of double doors. The right one was ajar, inviting her to enter; she pushed it open, and stepped in.

  The room before her was dark and luxurious, with mahogany furnishings and windows draped in wine-coloured brocade. A great desk dominated the floor, with a wing-backed chair behind it. And in that chair sat a delicate-looking faery with honey-blonde curls and eyes like frosted steel, while standing in the shadows to either side—

  No!

  Frantic, Rhosmari tried to conjure an image of the wood outside the house, so she could Leap away. But her thoughts scattered, and her body refused to lose its substance. Choking off a cry, she whirled to flee.

  Martin caught her before she could take more than a step. With a flick of a finger he spelled the doors closed behind them, then used his good arm to twist Rhosmari around so that she faced the Empress and the Blackwings once more.

  ‘I think you’ll find, Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘that I have won our wager.’

  ‘Indeed you have,’ replied the Empress, her gaze travelling over Rhosmari appreciatively. ‘Well done. Heal him, Byrne.’

  With a grudging air the shorter of the raven brothers came around the desk and clapped his hand onto Martin’s injured shoulder, hard enough to make the other faery hiss through his teeth. But when he took his hand away, the colour came back into Martin’s face. He swung his newly healed arm in a circle and acknowledged Byrne with an ironic bow, before turning to the Empress and bowing to her as well.

  ‘I apologise for this unpleasantness,’ Martin murmured to Rhosmari. ‘But given a choice between my freedom and yours, I’m sure you understand which one I prefer.’

  Rhosmari could not bear to look at him. He had accused her of judging him unfairly, of not trusting him enough…and all the while he had been planning to betray her. Had anything he had told her about himself been true? Or had he been nothing more than an actor playing a part all along?

  ‘I have been so looking forward to getting acquainted with you,’ said the Empress, her voice silken and sweet. ‘I know we will have a great deal to talk about. Oh, do not struggle – you will only hurt yourself, and there is nowhere for you to escape.’ In a rustle of silk she rose from her chair and walked to where Rhosmari stood trembling in Martin’s grip, then unsheathed a small dagger from her waist.

  ‘This will only hurt a little,’ she said.

  eight

  ‘Will you stay for dinner, Martin?’ asked the Empress, as she sheathed the knife and returned to her seat. ‘Or at least for tea – surely you can find time for that? This occasion must be celebrated.’

  �
�Your Majesty is gracious,’ replied Martin. ‘But I have…other commitments.’ His eyes slid away from Rhosmari’s accusing gaze, ignoring the still-bleeding hand she cradled against her breast. ‘I beg you will excuse me.’

  ‘Martin,’ said the Empress, still pleasantly but on a crisper note, ‘I wish you the joy of your new freedom. But I think you may find that such independence is less fulfilling than you suppose.’

  ‘I will take that risk, Your Majesty.’ He bowed a final time, and disappeared.

  Rhosmari was left alone in the centre of the carpet, facing the Empress. Her heart felt as though it were trying to climb out of her throat. But she reminded herself that she was the daughter of Lady Celyn, and kept her head high and her back straight, though beneath her flowing skirt her knees were trembling.

  ‘Oh, child.’ The Empress’s face softened. ‘The worst is over, I assure you. You are safe now.’

  ‘Safe.’ She forced the word out. ‘How so?’

  ‘Because you are with me,’ the Empress told her. ‘This estate is warded on every side, so no enemy can approach without my knowing it. You will have a comfortable bed to sleep in, and fresh clothes to wear, and food as fine as you could wish for – Sarah, our hostess, is a wonderful cook. And I will be glad of your company, for the days are long and lonely when my lieutenants are abroad.’ She gave a little smile as she glanced from one Blackwing to another. ‘I have been yearning for a chance to talk to one of the fabled Children of Rhys. Corbin, bring a chair for our guest – Rhosmari, is it?’

  The Empress knew Rhosmari’s true name, a secret so precious that she had never spoken it aloud, let alone shared it with anyone. She could summon Rhosmari with a thought, and force her to do anything she wanted. But it seemed that she did not know everything about her – at least not yet. Biting her dry lips, Rhosmari sat down in the armchair Corbin Blackwing had provided for her, and willed herself to stay calm. Perhaps she could still prevent the Empress from finding out too much about the Green Isles, if she kept her answers brief and careful.