“Shh,” Gertie said, trying to put something warm into my hands.

She hadn’t asked what I’d meant by “us”; maybe she already knew. Agnes had certainly had no trouble figuring it out. But right then, I didn’t care.

I grabbed her arm, sloshing some liquid onto my shawl. “You don’t understand. He’s killed t-thousands, practically h-hunted Faerie out. Taken anyone he can find with godly blood in their veins, even some of his own p-people, and I don’t know why. He can’t use that many abilities; he couldn’t even keep them all straight! What is he doing—”

“Send for Michaelina,” Gertie said—to Agnes, who I hadn’t even noticed being there.

We’d just gotten back, literally a few minutes before. To the point that I still had snow in my hair, the residue of whatever had fallen off the overhang. And that was despite sitting right beside the fire, in Gertie’s huge old armchair.

She pulled the damp pashmina away, while Agnes all but ran from the room. And handed me the teacup, which was now half empty, but still warm and good. I drank it all, and Rhea was there with a refill before I even finished. The firelight gleamed on her dark hair, which was parted in the middle and tucked into a bun today, a style that would have looked severe on most people, but she carried it off.

It made her look like a Spanish dancer, only then she’d have a red, swirly dress and castanets. Instead of a demure blue dress and a worried frown between her eyes. Poor Rhea; she was constantly having to support a freaked-out Pythia.

“I don’t give you much of a break, do I?” I asked, after the second cup had stopped my teeth from chattering.

“I think it is you who doesn’t get much of a break,” she said, a little grimly.

But there was no time to chat. Agnes was already back, with a girl whose olive skin set off the white lace uniform better than mine, and whose long, dark hair had been crimped into curls that were already falling out. She had huge brown eyes, a sweet expression, and—

“No!” I said, as Gertie moved forward, the fey arrow in her hand.

“We need to know all we can,” Gertie said.

“Yes, but—not her. Find somebody else,” I said, because the girl was maybe fourteen, if that. And there was nothing in that awful thing she needed to see.

“There’s nobody better—”

“Then get somebody worse! Or I’ll do it myself—”

“You can’t control it,” Gertie said stubbornly. “You proved that.”

“I was under stress; I’ll do better this time.”