“She’s the guard to the King,” Ridley went on, drumming his ringed fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music. “And the last few Kanin monarchs were murdered, or at the very least died under mysterious circumstances, and Bryn really does not want to continue with the precedent.”

“Her career’s always been important to her,” I said.

“That’s true. She’s passionate about her work, and she’s great at it. That’s one of the first things that drew me to her. I just wish she’d take more time for herself . . . and for us.” He shook his head, as if clearing it, then grinned over at me. “That’s why I’m so glad you’re here. Bryn’s cashing in some of her vacation time she’s stocked up, and she can kick back and relax for once.”

The smile I managed felt tight and sick, and I swallowed back my guilt and doubt. “I hope we can have a nice time.”

“I’m sure you will,” he said confidently.

As we drove—the flat landscape increasingly broken up with tall, slender pine trees—Ridley and I chatted about his life with Bryn in the Kanin capital. He’d worked for the kingdom, training trackers, but after the war, he retired and floundered for a while, like many of his fellow soldiers and citizens. Eventually, he’d landed on his feet, and he got a job working at a greenhouse.

“Fortunately, Bryn was so supportive of such a dramatic career shift,” he explained. “But I really love it. It’s so much more satisfying knowing that I’m helping feed our kingdom instead of working an elaborate grift.”

He was talking about changelings, the troll practice that involved kidnapping human babies and stealing their money. Ridley—as a tracker and teacher—had never been a changeling, but he’d helped bring dozens of changelings—and their stolen inheritances—back to the kingdom.

A decade of that work had really worn on him, and now he excitedly talked about the hydroponics they’d installed. They’d had such a great season last year, the food treasury had made a neat profit exporting pickled beets to the Skojare.

We had at least another fifteen minutes to go, and we’d run through all the small talk—he’d even talked to me about Bryn’s Tralla horse, Bloom, and suggested I go for a ride while I was here. Everything around us was completely overgrown with the looming evergreen hybrids the Kanin cultivated, with long weeping willow–like branches, helping to conceal the road and the city.

Ridley wasn’t talking, and the current song on his playlist was a quiet ballad. As I looked out the window at the leering trees, the lysa song grew louder in my head.