“Don’t,” Tristan said. “It’s not your fault. He made his choices, and he has to live with the consequences, just as we do.”

“Will they grow back?” I whispered. The idea of it made my stomach twist, but the trolls could recuperate from so many things.

“No.”

Recuperate from almost anything. Except for dismemberment. And injuries to the brain.

And iron.

I chewed absently on my thumb, my mind going to the task the Summer King had set me. Of a surety, iron was the problem, and, to a lesser extent, gold. They were all fascinated by it, every one of them known to extract a gold coin from a pocket to play with while they were deep in thought. It was what had kept those ancient fey in this world long enough for the iron to infect them. To infiltrate their bodies. To steal their immortality.

Infect.

I frowned, trying to think of the iron as a disease that could be healed, but it felt all wrong. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, the skin on my thumb torn open. “Stones and sky,” I muttered, spitting into the snow and then sitting on my hands.

“Camp’s ahead,” Tristan said. “Victoria, wait here with the sled, and…” He grimaced, then gave me a look that said don’t let anything go wrong while I’m gone. As if I could stop Victoria if she decided to have her vengeance.

Tristan trotted off toward the camp, magic falling away to reveal a campfire and a single figure. I recognized Chris’s sturdy frame, his hand going to the pistol at his side, then relaxing as Tristan’s light flickered in the predetermined signal. Their heads bent together, one fair and one dark, and it dawned on me that they’d become friends.

The snow crunched as Victoria approached, and I tensed. “Untwist your knickers,” she said, sitting down in the snow next to the sled. “I haven’t had enough time to think of creative ways to hurt him, so he’s safe for now.”

Angry shouts burst from the camp, Martin’s voice and Tristan’s. “You might have to get in line,” I said, resting my chin on my knees, my eyelids heavy even as I knew there’d be little rest in the coming days.

We both regarded Angoulême, Tristan’s black box of magic having been replaced with fetters that blocked him from sight and sound. He shifted, testing his limits, and my skin prickled with unease. I’d spent so much time fighting against him, watching him hurt those I cared about, that he’d taken on almost monolithic proportions in my mind. It was difficult to reconcile that with the slight troll lying helpless at my feet, his fine clothing dirty and ragged at the cuffs, one boot half pulled off his foot. His strength was in his mind, his genius; and, as he turned his head to me, nostrils flaring slightly, I had to fight the urge to recoil.

He wasn’t helpless. He was a snake waiting for an opportune time to strike.