When I had been teaching Molly how to shield, I hadn’t used anything more painful than fluffy snowballs and rotten fruit.

“That will do for now,” said the woman’s voice. “Tomorrow we will move up to knives.”

Molly shuddered and looked down.

The speaker came walking calmly down the alley to stand over Molly.

It was my faerie godmother, the Leanansidhe.

Lea was beautiful beyond the loveliness of mere humanity, but it was a stark, hungry, dangerous beauty that always reminded me of a hunting cat. She was tall and pale, her hair the color of autumn leaves at sunset. Her ears were very slightly pointed, though I wasn’t sure she hadn’t done that to herself in order to conform to mortal expectations. She wore a long gown of green silk, wholly unsuitable to the task of protecting a mortal from the weather, but as she was one of the most powerful Sidhe of the Winter Court, I doubted she even noticed the cold.

She reached out a hand and touched Molly’s hair with her fingertips.

“Why?” Molly asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Obligation, child,” Lea replied. “Favors owed and loyalties given.”

“You owed it to Harry to do this to me?” Molly asked.

“Nay, child, not me. But my queen is committed to him through ancient law and custom. She dispatched me to continue your training in the Art—and pain is an excellent teaching tool.”

“Harry didn’t believe that,” Molly said, her voice brittle. “He never hurt me.”

The Leanansidhe stooped and seized Molly’s chin, jerking my apprentice’s face up to meet her inhuman gaze. “Then he wronged you badly, child,” Lea replied, enunciating each word sharply. “He cheated you of the legacy he lived—and suffered to acquire. I am not teaching you how to tie knots in rope or to bake pastries. I am making you ready to face battle and emerge alive.”

“I have faced battle,” Molly said.

“In which you were shot, of all things, by a mere mortal foot soldier,” Lea said, contempt flavoring her words. “You nearly died, which would have been greatly humiliating to your mentor and by extension to my queen.”

“What does it matter to Mab?” Molly said, her voice bitter. “He’s dead.”

Lea sighed. “Mortals can be so obsessed with useless detail. It grows tiresome.”

“I don’t understand,” Molly said.

“Your mentor took an oath of fealty to my queen. Such oaths are not to be made lightly—and they place mutual obligations on both parties. Minor details do not excuse either party from its responsibilities.”

“His death is a minor detail?”

“As these things go,” Lea said, “of course it is. You’re all mortals. Even the life length of a wizard is something brief and transitory to an immortal. Similarly, extending her hand to the assistance of those her vassal knew in life is a minor detail. If you live another three centuries, it is little more than a long season to the Queen of Air and Darkness.”