“He’s an elf,” I whispered, the thrill of discovery bubbling up making my pulse race. “They didn’t die out in the Turn. He’s an elf. Trent is a freaking elf!”

“Whoa, wait a minute,” Ivy warned. “They’re gone. If any were alive, Jenks would know. He’d be able to smell it.”

I shook my head, pacing to the hallway to look for winged eavesdroppers. “Not if the elves went underground for a pixy/fairy generation. The Turn pretty much did them in, and it wouldn’t be hard to hide what survived until the last pixy who knew what they smelled like died. They only live about twenty years or so, pixies I mean.” My words tumbled over themselves as I rushed to get it out. “And you saw how Trent doesn’t like them or fairies. It’s almost a phobia. It fits! I can’t believe it! We figured it out!”

“Rachel,” Ivy cajoled as she shifted atop the counter. “Don’t be stupid. He’s not an elf.”

Arms crossed, I pressed my lips together in frustration. “He sleeps at noon and midnight,” I said, “and he’s most active at dawn and dusk, just like elves were. He possesses nearly vamplike reflexes. He likes his solitude but is damn good at manipulating people. My God, Ivy, the man tried to ride me down on horseback like prey under the full moon!” I tossed my arms as I gestured. “You’ve seen his gardens and that artificial forest of his. He’s an elf! And so are Quen and Jonathan.”

She shook her head. “They died. All of them. And what would they have to gain by letting even Inderland think they were gone if they weren’t? You know how we throw money at endangered species. Especially intelligent ones.”

“I don’t know,” I said, exasperated with her disbelief. “Humanity was never keen on their history of stealing human babies and substituting their own failing infants. That would be enough for me to keep my mouth shut and my head down until everyone thought we were dead.”

Ivy made a noise of doubt deep in her throat, but I could see her belief shifting. “He works ley lines,” I insisted. “You said it yourself. Eliminate the impossible, and what’s left, no matter how improbable, is the truth. The man isn’t human or witch.” My eyes closed as I remembered biting both Jonathan and Trent when I had been a mink, struggling to escape. “He can’t be. His blood tastes like cinnamon and wine.”

“He’s an elf,” Ivy said, her voice shockingly flat. I opened my eyes. Her face was alive and alight. “Why didn’t you tell me he tasted like cinnamon?” she said as she slipped from the counter, her black ankle boots hitting the linoleum without a sound.