“Do you mean to try to force me?” Margaret countered. She looked at Beauclaire. “You—who set the world on this course in search of justice for your daughter—you would seek to imprison me for the crime of being my father’s daughter?”

“There are many,” said Nemane, “who would rather be elsewhere. But we are few, child. Too few to survive a war—no matter what some say. We have to make a show of strength. We need you in order to survive.”

Margaret raised her head and squared her shoulders. “Do you know what I learned when I was trapped in the earth for more than half a century? With neither food to eat, nor water to drink, nor light to see by, when there is no sound except that you make yourself, some things become very clear. Death is not to be feared. Death is easy. It is living that is brutal. The fae may survive or not. I do not care. I am not one of you except through my parents—and they are both dead.”

Goreu reached across the table with the speed of a striking snake and slapped something on Margaret’s wrist that closed with a click—a fine silver bar bracelet with a red cabochon stone. Goreu held a similar bracelet and shut it on his wrist. As he clicked it closed, he drew in a breath as if it had hurt.

Margaret sat frozen.

It wasn’t one of the set of bone cuffs, Peace and Quiet, that had once been used on me. Tad had destroyed those.

“If you cannot be persuaded any other way,” the Widow Queen said, “then you leave us no choice. We owe it to your father to protect you and return you to health.”

Margaret looked down at her wrist. Then she looked at Goreu. “You have made a mistake.”

I couldn’t help but look at Thomas. He was very, very still.

“Perhaps,” said Goreu. “I did argue that there were those who might be of more use to us—we have only one artifact that can hold a fae against their will for very long.”

“You are so arrogant, all of you,” Margaret said. “Goreu, Custennin’s son, you may be powerful, I do not contest that. But it has been a long time since you beheaded your uncle—and that you did after he was already defeated. But these bracelets are not about how powerful your magic is. You have made a mistake.”

The name Custennin rang a bell. Margaret focused on the bald little fae. She said, “Crawl across the table to me.”

Custennin had been a shepherd who had twenty-four children. I remembered that because it was twice twelve, and twelve is a number that occurs quite a lot in fairy tales.

Goreu opened his mouth—then lost his smirk. He braced himself on the edge of the table.

“Crawl,” Margaret said.