“Fine,” I bite out, before I can stop myself. “We head west first thing in the morning.”

Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think I feel the magic simmer with satisfaction in my palm. I squeeze my fingers hard enough to leave ragged nail imprints in the silvery mark, as if that will stop it from spreading to my veins.

chapter seven

I’m left staring at the distant gold smudge of faraway flames long after Isolde jumps up excitedly to start getting everything ready. I know I should move, but I can’t shake off my heavy thoughts. My fingers move over the compass in my palm in absentminded, endless circles.

Looking out over the rest of the riverside encampments, I see people dousing the bonfire and picking up their scattered mess and staggering home to catch a few hours of sleep before the world begins anew. As the parties wind down, faeries that are too weak or lazy or drunk to summon up a physical form drift out of the city in faint, bouncing balls of light. Half in this world, half in theirs.

They say the border between worlds used to be blurred, and not just at Revelnox. The faeries lived among mortals, bargained with them, fell in love with them. They allowed humans into their realms as equals, artists, and friends. But that was a long time ago, and now the divide between mortals and faeries is deep and filled with distrust. The faeries spend as little time in our world as possible, and mortals can only enter the Seelie and Unseelie Realms through faerie-made portals.

It’s better this way.

Except for those of us with a foot in each world, yet belonging in neither.

Finally, I force myself to get to work. We need to leave as soon as we’ve caught a few hours of sleep, and I have to make sure the Destiny is ready for the trip.

The tight space between the wagon’s underside and the grass presses in on me like a hug as I crawl between its wheels in the stillness of late night. I can hardly see, now that the fire’s down to embers and the moon is the only source of light.

Luckily, I’ve done this chore so many times that I don’t need to see. My hands move automatically, unlatching the box attached to the Destiny’s rear axle. The lid falls open on smooth, oiled hinges, and I dodge to the left. That box has given me more than its fair share of black eyes and bloody lips, but refueling is one job Isolde can’t do for me.

I take a deep breath, crushing my ribs against the ground, and let a trickle of magic flow to my fingertips.

I’m not sure how the device actually works, what mechanism it uses to store the magic it collects, and I don’t really care. As long as I remember to channel magic into the box every week or so, depending on how far and fast we’ve been traveling, the enchanted wagon runs. There’s a limit to how much magic each mortal enchanter can call on at once, but I’ve only reached mine once, on the night we ran away from home. At least, I think I did. I might have been able to draw even more if I hadn’t passed out from the pain.