She took her leave of Hypatia and was halfway across the room when something caught her eye in the shadows: two male figures, close together. She realized with a jolt that they were Matthew and Kellington. Matthew was leaning against the wall, Kellington—the taller of the two—bending over him.

Kellington’s hand rose to cup the back of Matthew’s neck, his fingers in Matthew’s soft hair.

Cordelia saw Matthew shake his head just as more dancers joined the throng on the floor, cutting off her view; when they passed, she saw that Matthew was gone and Kellington, looking stormy, was headed back across the room toward Hypatia. She wondered why she had been so shocked—it was hardly news to her that Matthew liked men as well as women, and Matthew was single: his decisions were his own. Still, Kellington’s overall air discomfited her. She hoped Matthew would be careful—

Someone placed a hand on her arm.

She whirled to see a woman standing before her—the faerie who’d been seated with Kellington earlier. She wore a dress of emerald velvet, and around her throat was a necklace of gleaming blue stones.

“Forgive the intrusion,” she said breathlessly, as though nervous. “Are you—are you the girl who danced for us all some months ago?”

“I am,” said Cordelia warily.

“I thought I recognized you,” the faerie said. She had a pale, intent face. “I quite admired your skill. And the sword, of course. Am I correct in thinking that the blade you bear is Cortana itself?” She whispered this last part, as though just invoking the name took courage.

“Oh, no,” Cordelia said. “It’s a fake. Just a nicely made replica.”

The faerie stared at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “Oh, very good!” she said. “I forget sometimes that mortals joke—it is a sort of lie, isn’t it, yet meant to be funny? But any true faerie would know the work of Wayland the Smith.” She gazed at the sword in admiration. “If I may say so, Wayland is the greatest living metalworker of the British Isles.”

That brought Cordelia up short. “Living?” she echoed. “Are you saying that Wayland the Smith is still alive?”

“Why, of course!” said the faerie, clapping her hands, and Cordelia wondered whether she was about to reveal that Wayland the Smith was in fact the rather drunk goblin in the corner with the lampshade on his head. But she only said, “Nothing that he has made has passed into human hands in many centuries, but it is said he still operates his forge, under a barrow in the Berkshire Downs.”

“Indeed,” Cordelia said, trying to catch Anna’s eye in hope of rescue. “How very interesting.”

“If you had any thought of meeting Cortana’s maker, I could take you. Past the great white horse and under the hill. For only a coin and a promise of—”