“Fiona will return to the rebel camp, and Fiadh will take her place,” the princess is saying when Croi finally deigns to listen to her again. The green-ringed eyes belonging to Fiona make a lot of sense all of a sudden. She is the messenger between the rebels and the Fire Princess so she is of Talamh origins.

“Why can’t I just join your group without pretending to be someone else?” Croi doesn’t want to be a handmaid. Like Tinder, she doesn’t believe in them.

“Do you think just anyone can be part of the king’s entourage?” Caoimhe asks stiffly. She seems to have taken an instant dislike to Croi. “Everyone, from the cooks to the horse goblins, is carefully vetted before they’re allowed to exist in the proximity of our royalty.”

If the handmaid gets any more pretentious, she might die. Or Croi might ask Tinder to pix her.

“Will you Glamour her, my lady?” Aislin asks the princess, and Croi takes two steps back. No one is Glamouring her ever again.

“How else will we convince everyone that you are Fiona?” the princess says, correctly interpreting Croi’s actions.

“I don’t know and I don’t really care,” Croi replies.

A tense silence follows as the princess considers her words. Then she shrugs, her features smoothing over. She removes a set of the dark uniform common to Daithi’s soldiers from her saddlebag and hands it to Fiona, who takes a minute to change before handing the dress she was wearing to Croi.

“Put it on,” the princess commands.

For once, Croi is happy to obey. She changes behind a tree, slipping gleefully into a dress the color of a sparking fire. Croi wonders if the shine of the dress will rub off on her, but when she rejoins the group, all of them, even Tinder, take one look at her, and their faces turn politely blank. Their reaction makes Croi smile brighter.

“Fiona had no conversations with anyone and kept her eyes downcast. She never took off her veil, so if we’re careful, no one will notice,” the princess says to Croi, and turns to Fiona, who bows her head deferentially.

“Find Daithi, tell him we’re all right and that… I… We will see him… soon.” Fiona nods once and is gone.

“Why didn’t you give her the beastie?” If the rebel soldiers are still at the Redcap camp, they are hours away.

“She’s a fleet-foot,” the princess replies, rubbing the beastie’s flank. “She’ll be able to reach the rebel camp in less than the time it took us to reach here.” She turns to her remaining handmaids. “Did Monca go to Lorcan?”

“Yes, my lady,” Aislin says, “but we must hurry. She warned us that she could not keep him occupied for more than an hour—”

“Monca?” Croi interrupts. “The brownie who brought you to your father?”

“Yes. She’s my brownie-mother,” the princess clarifies.

Croi squelches the sudden spurt of envy she feels. The fire princess didn’t just have a mother; she also has a brownie mother. Then she comes to attention. A brownie. A real brownie.