Faol kicked off, up into the sky. Orfeus followed, ducked down low over the handles, as fast as she dared with the cat tucked in close to her. Urgency tapped at her mind. Four weeks Linden had been gone. She was already late.

Part Three

The Fox

Chapter Thirteen

Come back to me on the winding road

Though not because I mourn my missing beau

It’s the roses, my love

Since you’re gone

The roses miss you so

- Lover’s Lay

Orfeus trained in the room, and danced a smooth and careful step. Light sprung up as a shimmer around her. Through the hand mirror she’d propped up beside her, she saw … nothing, really. Just more of the room. Perhaps there was a shifting, vague suggestion of her in the air, but nothing noticeable unless you looked hard.

Orfeus dropped the disguise, grinning with her teeth bared. She was short of breath and her foot ached with pain, but she’d done it.

On her way out, she picked the mirror back up and tucked it into her cloak. Excellently, anyone who saw it would just think she was vain.

She had no appointment nor invitation, and dawdled awkwardly outside of Luga’s little throne room. After a few minutes, Boarhound poked ver head out, hiccupped, and pulled back. A moment later ve came back out the door, looking serious and strict and not at all drunk. “The Fox,” ve called over ver shoulder.

“Thank you,” Orfeus said, a little at a loss at being announced like an old-timey courtier

Dormarch grinned at her and pulled open the doors, and Orfeus followed vem in. She glanced up at Luga, and waved at Dormarch. “The Boarhound!” she said.

Dormarch chuckled. Luga stared down at Orfeus, his green eyes hooded, pale hair pulled back. Wearing his crown of twisted antlers, he looked like a demon or spirit from before the Industrial age, like at any moment he’d gush out a breath of frost and steam.

Orfeus strode up to the base of his throne-pile and smiled winningly. “Do I get leave?” she said.

His eyes were disconcertingly green. She wondered if Faolan had told him, reported everything, said she wasn’t to be trusted and that her allegiances were divided in more ways than they’d even predicted.

Luga leaned back, stirring his finger to dismiss her. “Of course,” he said. “Hunters are above other folk, but we still need our rest.”

Her skin crept and crawled. Lying. Luga struck her as far too controlling to simply let her come and go as she pleased without any conditions. She felt strongly he was lying or at least hiding something. No wonder Faolan hated being lied to so much: it felt like stepping on something slimy in the dark.