With Sinclair’s help, I trampled down a circle and spread the white linen tablecloth on the ground. Emptying my pockets of acorn caps, I placed them around the rim of the cloth, making sure they were spaced evenly and nestled securely in place.

Sinclair watched with a bemused look as I pulled the stopper on the flagon, breaking the seal, and began carefully filling each acorn cap to the brim. “What is that?”

“Nine hundred dollars’ worth of cowslip dew,” I said, concentrating on not spilling it. “So let’s hope this works.” When I was finished, I still had half a bottle of dew left. Not sure what to do with it, I left it open and placed it in the center of the tablecloth.

“Okay,” he said. “What happens now?”

I sat cross-legged in front of one of the acorn-cap place settings, and pointed at the setting opposite me. “We wait.”

Still looking bemused, Sinclair took a seat on the other side of the tablecloth.

Although it was late afternoon by now, in mid-July the sun was still high. It beat down on us. I could hear birdsong and the faint drone of cars on the highway. Even through my jeans, the meadow grass was prickly. Minutes passed, feeling like hours. Hell, maybe it was hours. I fought the urge to shift and scratch. My pent-up tail wriggled in futile protest.

Maybe this was a stupid idea—

No, wait.

“There,” Sinclair breathed, his brown eyes widening. “Behind you!”

I swallowed. “Behind you.”

His gaze shifted. “And there—”

“And over there,” I added.

Okay, I’d dealt with fairies before, but never so many at the same time. And I’ll admit it was surprisingly intimidating. Emerging from the meadow and shedding their glamours, a dozen or more descended on the feast I’d laid out for them. Tilted catlike eyes glittered feverishly. Long, attenuated fingers with too many joints snatched up the acorn caps, tossing back the contents into mouths lined with unnervingly keen little teeth. Translucent wings fluttered, making the air around them sparkle. Golden sunlight fell on green skin, lavender skin, pale blue skin. And yes, they were very, very pretty—but scary, too.

Sinclair Palmer gazed around him in wonder, and then yelped. “Ow!” he said in protest. “Hey! You pulled my hair!”

“Ooh, look,” one of the lavender-skinned fairies said to another, stroking Sinclair’s short woolly dreads. “It’s already in elf-locks.”

“Ooh!”

I cleared my throat and raised my rune-marked left hand. “Hello? Hel’s liaison. Can we talk?”

The fairy nearest me sported greenish skin, an aureole of lacy white hair, and deep-purple eyes. She eyed dauda-dagr’s hilt and hissed, baring her pointed teeth. “It’s cold and it hurts, half-breed!”

“Too bad,” I said ruthlessly. “We need your help.”

Her narrow nostrils flared. “Take thy weapon away!”

I shook my head. “Not a chance.”

“Daisy?” Sinclair’s voice was faint and uncertain. “Um . . . help?”