The thought wasn’t as unnerving as it should have been, which, in itself, was unsettling. She ached for a steaming mug of coffee and the largest, cleanest parchment she could get her hands on.

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Brella led Scratch out of the clearing, passing through trees coated in thick, damp moss. It was darker here, shaded and cool. The landscape had a sort of wild quality, like no one had left footprints in this mulchy earth in generations. The trees twisted, as horizontal as they were vertical, with trunks wrapped like adders around rocks, and bark knotted from root to branch.

Brella ambled across the rough landscape at an alarming pace. She moved like an animal, seemingly without thought, swinging around tree branches and hopping between exposed roots. When Scratch had envisioned the fair folk before, she hadn’t pictured a jumbled grandmother of human-and-animal parts living in a cottage outside of time. She had pictured a creature like Brella, so at home in the wilderness, a gust of wind darting through the leaves. She was mesmerizing to watch, all confidence, not even pausing to make sure she was on the right track, not planning any step before she took it.

Was it really possible that Brella’s only ulterior motive was installing Frances on the throne? Could every story of hers actually be true? That she impulsively agreed to follow an abducted princess, accompanied only by two confused guards and one of her many brothers? She had known, previous to their meeting, who Scratch was. She’d said as much back at Nana’s cottage. Did that necessarily mean she’d had a hand in Scratch’s imprisonment, or the princesses’s disappearance . . .

Hope. It was hope, bright and eye-watering. Her stomach sank when she remembered where hope had led her before.

She had nearly forgotten to expect a fae interruption when an oily voice slunk out from the treetops.

“I told you not to come back,” the voice purred.

Scratch shivered, reaching out to grab Brella’s arm on instinct. Brella carefully clasped her hand.

“You did nothing of the sort, Hatter,” Brella replied tartly, squeezing Scratch’s fingers.

“Not you, Parasol. Her.”

A man appeared in front of them, very tall and rather skinny, but of entirely human proportions. His sandy blond hair flopped over dark, canny eyes, light curls skimming a dark blue tailcoat entirely free of forest debris. He had dressed his slender legs in white stockings with bows, his feet in buckled leather. With every immaculate stitch, every too-bright hue, Hatter looked like a poor man’s idea of a noble.

“Me?” Scratch pointed at herself with her free hand. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“Oh, very droll, Purpose,” the fae trilled, his accent crisp and proper. “I told you in fairly certain terms that if you darkened my pass ever again, I would come to collect. Now then.” He held out a manicured palm. “My price.”