7

I appear at the fourth ball as a human version of myself, recognizable to Celinda, but not so Fae in appearance that I attract attention from anyone else. My sole purpose is to get the spelled candy into her hand—and yet I find myself lingering, loath to relinquish the bliss of dancing with her.

Celinda’s fingers slip between mine like we were crafted to fit together. The shift and sway of her body is the sweetest torture, and when she looks at me, breathless, bright-eyed, and expectant, like she wants me to kiss her right there on the dance floor, I nearly go mad with happiness.

I hold her for a few exquisite moments, and then I give her the candy and let her go.

Once I’m in the adjoining hallway, I become the King again and proceed to my chambers, where I let it be known to my guards and servants that I’m retiring for the night and may not rise early in the morning. There is something I must do in Faerie, and I’m not sure how long it will take.

My love for my protégé requires that I leave no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored if it might lead to her freedom. I’ve exhausted all the artifacts and spells I could lay my hands on, and it’s time to face the fact that the Wraith’s Scythe might be Celinda’s last chance. There is plenty of lore in Faerie about its ability to cleave anything asunder, including objects infused with the darkest of magic.

But according to what I’ve learned since Celinda first mentioned it to me, the scythe is located in Wight’s Marsh, in a distant corner of the Unseelie Kingdom, a region beyond the reach of the treaty between the Seelie and Unseelie monarchs. From my current position in the mortal world, I can perceive the general area, but I can’t see anything distinctly, nor can I determine the exact location of the scythe. My Wretched Sight isn’t much help when it comes to finding specific objects or locating people with whom I’m not magically connected or blood-related.

With a sigh, I portal to my cottage in Faerie and open the closet where I keep a couple of swords, an ax, and a whip. I’m not much of a fighter, but life in Faerie demands a certain familiarity with weapons. I choose the whip, which is similar to the one my mother wields. It’s shorter than hers, and tends to be less reliable. In fact, I could swear it has a mind of its own.

“Are you going to behave for me this time?” I mutter as I coil it up and attach it to my belt. It pulses bright green in response. I don’t know if that’s a yes or not.

I could bring one of the swords, I suppose, but I’m not much good with them. Torin is the swordsman of the family—a born fighter. Takes after both his parents in that respect.

There’s nothing else for it but to portal to Wight’s Marsh and hope for the best.