“There they are!” He sat up straight, jostling my hands away as he pointed. “Look, Tristan. Look at all the humans.”

Dread filled my stomach with ice as my gaze jumped from the forested slope, to the beach below, and then to the open water.

“Yes, Tristan. Look at all those humans.” Angoulême’s voice drifted up the slope. Cutting. Cruel. “Roland, kill him.”

My brother whispered one word before his body went stiff, power manifesting with vicious heat: “Run.”

Chapter Fifty

Cécile

“It looks like a sheet of fabric being torn from the middle out,” I said, throwing another log on the fire and giving Martin an encouraging nod. “Or a piece of paper.”

“Your analogy is not becoming any more helpful with repeating,” he replied, scowling and plucking at the air. “I feel so useless. I should be able to feel the press of Arcadia against this world, but I feel nothing.”

And I felt no relief to the press of my promise to the Summer King. It was as though, despite removing the iron from Martin, despite making him fey once more, that I’d accomplished nothing. Because he could not go back to Arcadia, and that, ultimately, was what the fairy king wanted. There was another piece. Something that I was missing. But what?

“You aren’t useless,” I said, holding my hands over the flames. “Without your bravery, we wouldn’t even know removing iron from trolls was possible. It’s just that there’s another step in the process that we haven’t figured out yet. But we will.”

And hopefully soon. Beyond fulfilling my promise, there’d be advantages to having someone with fey magic on our side. In fact, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the advantages we’d gain as we sat around the fire waiting for Tristan to save the world. Or die trying.

Chris had finally lost patience and gone hunting, Victoria had somehow convinced Vincent to chop wood, much to the detriment of the forest, and my gran was busy gathering what plant life hadn’t been razed by troll-fire. The only thing I could think to do to keep my mind off Tristan was to help Martin, but all it had amounted to was frustration.

“You’d know if something was wrong,” the librarian said, focusing on solidifying his form so that he could pat me on the arm.

I got to my feet and began to pace, tension singing through me from head to toe. Everything wasn’t fine. Tristan was in the thick of it, and the constant bombardment was making me physically ill. I’d wretched up everything I’d eaten for breakfast, and now I was dizzy and tired.

A deep sense of reluctance filled my core and my mouth tasted abruptly sour. I shoved one of the mint leaves Gran had given me into my mouth and chewed furiously.