Artemus knew he should have this woman, this creature, thrown out with a spear pressed to her back. Assuming he even could, given the current state of his guards. In any case, everything about this tortured night caught up to him just then. His shoulders slumped, his arm finally feeling the weight of his dead son. He’d known for a while that his wife hated him, but he never in his most deranged nightmares believed she would go to such extremes to rid herself of his company, going so far as to threaten the tenuous peace their arranged marriage had granted Finfalla and its neighbor to the west. And, truth be told, at this moment he had nothing left to lose. “Wait,” he said.

The woman smiled and held out her arms. He thrust Tomas forward and she took him, maneuvering his small form deftly with the skill of one who’d done it before. Then she raised a small vial of a golden liquid that seemed to be glowing slightly, though he couldn’t ascertain from where she’d drawn it, whether from some hidden pocket or from within the sleeves of her shimmering dress like a magician’s sleight of hand.

Without further delay, she unstoppered the vial with her teeth and spat out the cork. Then she pressed the small container to the child’s mouth, tilting his head back slightly and using one of her leaves to part his lips.

“What is that?” Artemus asked.

“Shh,” she said, dripping the golden liquid onto Tomas’s tongue until the entire vial was drained. Then she eased his lips closed once more. “Here, you take him again. He will need to see the face of his father first.”

“What are you talking abou—”

The question died on his lips, because somewhere in between blinks she’d vanished, though there was no door or window through which she could’ve escaped, and the hallway was too long for her to have traversed its length in so short a time even at a full sprint. The guards gasped, each of them heaving forward as though exhausted, hands pressing to knees.

And then the baby in his arms began to cry.

Queen Elwyn Vedran-Echevaria froze, ears searching the night for the sound she swore she’d just heard. A cry. A baby’s cry.

At first, the sound didn’t repeat itself, the night as silent as a graveyard at midnight. But then:

The cry lit up the silence like a flame chasing away shadows. It was distant, but even a mother who’d never heard her baby’s cry knew it the first time. “Tomas,” she whispered. “How?”

Magda and Beatty, who’d hurried ahead of her, finally seemed to realize their mistress was no longer with them, turning with eyes as wide as saucers. Had they heard the sound too? Or was her grief playing tricks on her?