“Croi…,” he whispers, his eyes finally flooding with the smile she has been waiting for.

He is not ours. He will never be ours.

“That’s not up to you,” Croi tells her other self.

“My lady, the king is asking for you.” Before Croi can reply to Irial, a Tine soldier appears in front of her. The look on his face says that neither he nor his king will be denied.

“Find me,” she tells Irial before following the soldier out of the center of the maze.

THIRTY

THE LATE AFTERNOON SUN WASHES the world golden, giving it a deceiving warmth, but Croi, as she trails after the Tine soldiers, knows better. The scent of roses is heavy in the air, but it cannot hide the stench of despair that roils underneath. Every kin here, no matter their status or power, is pretending that nothing is wrong: not with the magick, not with the Caisleán, and definitely not with their monarch. No matter how loud the lamentations of the kin outside the walls of the Caisleán are, they will not hear them. The revelry Croi attended is just another way the kin fool themselves and keep fear at bay. They will abandon themselves to merrymaking because the alternative is too heavy to bear. They would much rather not watch a monster they know will eventually eat them approach.

Motes of magick swirl beside Croi as she walks through the maze before coming together to create the tremulous form of a fae. But before the figure of the fae can fully come together, it collapses inward, and the magick motes dissipate.

What was that?

“How would I know?” Croi quickens her pace, walking closer to the soldiers. Not that she expects them to move to protect her in case of danger. She just feels that if she’s nearer to them, the chances of them getting attacked first are higher.

They emerge from the maze, coming out onto a cobbled avenue Croi has never seen before. Court kin, dressed for the night, march past them, their noses (of those who do have them) high in the air.

“Move!” a hoarse voice suddenly commands, and Croi turns around sharply to see a group of Talamh soldiers herding an elderly blue-horned faun up the avenue to a path lined by trees with dark green triangular leaves. The faun walks slowly, his head drooping.

Then, just before they all disappear, the faun looks back, and Croi sucks in a startled breath. It seemed like he was looking back at her. But how could that be? He was a part of the past, and she’s very much in the present. How could he see her through all the time that has passed between his presence in the Caisleán and hers?

Why would that be an impossibility? Humans would say magick is an impossibility. Kin would say our broken self is an impossibility.

“You don’t understand. If he saw us, really saw us, does that not mean we owe him something?” Croi is very close to panicking.