“I realize that you are angry,” Aodh says, a conciliatory note in his voice.

“Angry?” Croi whispers.

We are past anger.

“It would be easier if I were simply angry,” she says.

“Your mother—”

“I don’t have a mother, either,” Croi cuts him off again. “Two people who shared their bodies happened to create me. One of them tore me in two and threw me to the human world, and the other pretended I never existed until he no longer could. What do you want from me?”

“I want you to be safe!” Aodh bursts out, and a wall hanging catches fire. He looks at it, and the flames falter before disappearing.

“Safe?” Croi scoffs. “You want me to squander what few moments I have left in this world in pursuit of a nebulous safety? I’m going to die, King. Whether it is by the mischief of whatever powers that brought me here or by the breaking of the Glamour, I am going to die! Do you not understand that? Whether I cower inside the walls of this pavilion or provoke every single kin outside, death will come for me. I refuse to sit here and wait for it. Save your concern for the Fire Princess. She might appreciate it.”

Croi turns and leaves the room. No one dares to stop her.

Back on the fourth floor, Croi decides it is high time she washed her hair. She chooses a dress from the many the princess gave her and makes her way to the door of a washing room. She opens the door and is suddenly, impossibly, by a riverside complete with a gentle waterfall and large stones on which to sunbathe. The sky above is blue; the rich green flora on the banks boasts fragrant blooms. Croi spends an hour playing in the river before her stomach growls a complaint. She puts on a yellow dress that shimmers like liquid sunshine and returns to the living room, where she finds a pale-faced Tinder curled up on the arm of a chair.

“Hey.” Croi walks over to her. “What’s wrong?”

Tinder gives a low hum, her wings drooping as she gets to her feet.

“Tinder?” Croi picks her up gently, placing her in the palms of her hands, and brings her up to her eye level. The pixie avoids her eyes, bowing her head to look down. “Did someone hurt you?”

“I saw Daithi in the Caisleán,” the pixie whispers after a moment. “At the revelry. I flew over to him and saw that he wasn’t alone. The catkin is with him.”

“Which catkin?” Croi has a feeling she knows which one.

“I don’t know his name, but he’s the one who came to talk to you in the clearing after the whole mess with the Redcaps,” Tinder says, sneaking a look at Croi.

Didn’t I say bad smells tend to linger?

“Why does his presence upset you?” Croi makes a note to warn Irial about the rebel presence in the Caisleán.