So be it. He’ll dispose of the Seelie king’s spy. He’s tired of waiting to be forgiven, tired of waiting to be brought back into the world he’s missed. Moloch will make his own joy.

First to stop the spy. Then to find the Guardian. And at last to find all that lost magic and—why not?—keep it for himself. With that magic he could become as powerful as the Seelie king.

And then, Moloch thinks, let’s see what the selfish Seelie will do.

CHAPTER 18

Ralph Baines

1942

In his room at the Craig Village Inn of the Green Gate, Ralph Baines carefully hung up his uniform. He brushed away a tiny piece of lint. He examined his mustache in the mirror, trimming it neatly with his scissors.

He’d sent word on ahead and was told he’d be met, so tomorrow he would make his way to that ridiculous castle and prove to himself and everyone else that he was right.

This entire magic business was a hoax.

The knock on the door was soft but intrusive. He did not want to be disturbed. He went to the door, opening it a crack.

“Yes?”

“Sir, we be shutting the kitchen for the night. I like to let guests know.”

“I’m fine.” He began to close the door.

“You be off in the morn?”

He paused. “Yes. First thing.”

“Making for the barracks, then? The other young gents are heading in that direction and you could—”

“I’ll make my own way.” He paused again. “Good night.” And shut the door without waiting for the reply.

Then he sighed.

Mustn’t be totally rude. But no one here needed to know anything more about him, such as where he was going in the morning. Especially after what he’d heard about Rookskill Castle since arriving at this hostelry.

Magic. Tomfoolery. Sheer nonsense.

He’d been told, while eating his tasteless thin soup downstairs, that people in the village heard howls in the deepest part of the night. The man who’d told him that said gullible folk thought that wolves had returned to the glens and fens. The only wolves this man knew of were across the channel, he’d told Ralph—“The wolves of the Reich.”

But then the man had leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin and added in a murmur, “But wolves or no, that place Rookskill be wicked enchanted.”

Wolves. Enchantments. Ridiculous.

The forest, from the vantage of Ralph’s window at nighttime, looked like a thorny thicket. It hid Rookskill Castle in its depths.

Ralph Baines was not gullible. He was certain that he could peel away the falsehoods about this place and the children and the supposed magic they were learning and expose it all as a fraud and become the hero he wished to be.