“She’s royalty,” I said. “You do know that, don’t you?”

Ivy glanced into the dark hallway as the sound of running water filtered out. “Maybe a thousand years ago. Now she’s nothing, and she knows it.”

I made a puff of air. “Don’t you have any compassion? Doing my dishes is degrading.”

“I have a lot of compassion.” A flicker of anger set Ivy’s thin eyebrows high. “But the last time I looked, there weren’t any openings for princesses in the want ads. What is she supposed to do to give her life meaning? There aren’t any treaties for her to make, no rulings to judge, and her biggest decision is to have eggs or waffles for breakfast. There’s no way to give herself a feeling of worth with her old royalty crap. And doing dishes isn’t degrading.”

I leaned back in my chair in a show of acquiescence. She was right, but I didn’t like it. “So you have a run?” I prompted when the silence stretched.

Ivy sent one shoulder up and down. “I’m going to talk to Jenks.”

“Good.” I met her eyes, relieved. Something we could talk about without arguing. “I stopped at that Were’s house this afternoon. The poor guy wouldn’t let me in. The pixy girls had been at him. His hair was solid cornrows.” I had woken up one morning with my hair braided into the fringe of my afghan. Matalina had made them apologize, but it took me forty minutes to untangle myself. I would give just about anything to wake up like that again.

“Yeah, I saw him,” Ivy said, and I sat up from my slouch.

“You’ve been over there?” I asked, watching Ivy get her coat from the foyer and return. She slipped it on, the short leather jacket making a soft hush of silk against silk.

“I’ve been over there twice,” she said. “The Were won’t let me in, either, but one of my friends is taking him out on a date so Jenks will have to answer the door, the little prick. Typical little man. He has an ego the size of the Grand Canyon.”

I chuckled, and Ceri came in from the back. Her borrowed coat was over her arm and the shoes that Keasley bought her were in her grip. I wasn’t going to tell her to put them on. She could walk in the snow barefoot as far as I was concerned. Ivy, though, gave her a pointed look.

“You going to be all right for a while?” Ivy asked as Ceri dropped her shoes to the floor and snugged her feet into them.

“Good God,” I muttered, twisting the chair back and forth. “I’ll be fine.”

“Stay on holy ground,” she added as she gestured for Ceri to head out. “Don’t tap a line. Eat your cookies.”

“Not going to happen, Ivy,” I said. Pasta. I wanted pasta in alfredo sauce. That’s what Nick had cooked up for me the last time Ivy was bent on shoving these things down my throat. I couldn’t believe she’d been slipping me Brimstone. Yes, I could.