Chapter Five
The Roman baths are in the center of town, down the hill from Queen Street. We approach the public entrance and are waved
through by a startled attendant who recognizes me. I’m treated with such little respect by Bram’s court, I often forget I’m
still a national figurehead. My fame hasn’t gotten less strange.
Steam pours from the pool outside into the gray October skies. The bubbling waters are surrounded by white columns and mosaics
that are meant to look vaguely Roman. Above the pool, a marble statue of the goddess Sulis Minerva watches us reproachfully.
Together, we search the entire facility: the changing rooms, the tepidarium with its lukewarm greenish pools, the treatment
room dotted with marble tables, the blue-tiled indoor swimming pool, and then finally the caldarium, the hottest room, where
the white steam pools so thick, we can hardly see.
Marion pats her dark curls, trying to smooth the frizz from the humidity. “Olive’s not here.” She groans. “And she’s going
to be so put out we went on an errand without her if she finds out.”
I want to keep searching, but I know in my bones Marion is right. I’m upset with myself for letting Rhion plant even the smallest seed of doubt in my mind.
If Olive is taking the waters, then maybe she does have a health issue. If she hasn’t confided in me, then it’s none of my
business.
But one thing nags. If she takes the waters every day at eleven like Ben says, then why isn’t she here?
We emerge back out onto the chilly streets of Bath.
And then I see it. The flash of a gray cloak disappearing around a corner.
“Come on,” I whisper to the others.
Emmy looks at me like I’m half-crazed as I take off running, but then I hear Faith gasp and I know she’s seen her too.
We track Olive for a few blocks, staying far enough back that she doesn’t see us through the throngs of people on the high
street.
She ducks around another corner, but by the time we follow, she’s disappeared completely.
This street is quieter, dimmer. There’s nothing but a dusty, unfashionable haberdashery and a boarded-up print shop. Olive
is nowhere to be found.
I swear under my breath.
“She didn’t just vanish into thin air,” Marion offers unhelpfully.
With what I’ve witnessed of magic, I’m not so convinced.
I drag my hand along the stone wall, searching for a seam, when suddenly, I feel nothing. I stumble and look up. Where my
hand is, I visibly see a wall, but I wave my hand back and forth through it like it’s made of air.
A faerie trick. A secret door.
My heart pounds in my chest. Is it possible I’ve found the entrance to the Otherworld by sheer luck?
I feel around the edges and identify the bounds of a door just large enough for a human to step through.
“Come on.” I gesture to the others, and to their eternal credit, they follow without hesitation.
We enter into a dark stone corridor. In the distance, a flickering wall-mounted torch lights the way like a beacon.
Faith stumbles and Marion catches her by the elbow. The floor is an overlapping mess of shattered tiles, half-rotted wood,
and crumbled mosaics.
We follow the torch around the corner, then down a sloping walkway. The air turns thick and humid.
Faith sniffs. “Ew.”
“I didn’t even do anything!” Emmy replies.
Marion tilts her nose up. “It’s sulfur.”
“Well, it smells like rotten eggs,” I say.
We turn another corner, and it goes dark. There are no more torches to light our way as we travel into the underground labyrinth.
The four of us link hands and step over the treacherous floor as carefully as we’re able. I trip and Faith catches me by the
arm.
“Are you all right?”
“What could Olive possibly be doing down here?” I answer.
Maybe it wasn’t Olive at all. Maybe this is just some faerie trick and we’re all about to be hunted for sport or boiled alive
in the hot springs.
Just as my fear reaches a fever pitch, I spot a single pinprick of light in the distance.
We follow it until we enter an antechamber.
It’s lit up with torches on every wall, illuminating the strange room in firelight.
The stone walls are weathered with time, and the floor is dirt except for the symmetrically spaced stacks of bricks every few feet.
On the far wall, above an arched doorway, is a massive carving of a gorgon, his eyes wide, his beard and hair fanning out in all directions like a sunburst.
But that’s not the strangest thing in the room. The sulfuric fog parts and we see her. Sitting on the floor, directly in the
middle of a cage, is Queen Mor.
Her long dark hair hangs in a single braid down her back. She wears a simple white gown, stark against the dark bars of her
cell.
“You again,” she sighs as we enter.
It’s shocking to see her, especially looking so serene. I haven’t seen her since Bram’s coup. It’s like my body can sense
how dangerous she is; I have a sudden urge to turn on my heel and run.
“Have you been in Bath this whole time?” I ask.
“My son loves me. He prefers me close by,” she answers coolly.
The four of us jump at a clatter in the shadowy corner of the room.
Olive emerges, her gray cloak still pulled over her head. She’s got a tray of food in her hands: a bowl of milk, a saucer
of thick honey, glazed buns, and thick slices of bread. She calmly lays it on the floor and pushes it through the gap between
the bars of the cell.
“Olive?” I say. It’s the oddest thing. She doesn’t even glance my way.
“You enchanted her?” I ask Queen Mor.
“My son enchanted her,” she answers. “He needed someone to care for me.”
Emmy grasps Olive’s blank face in her hands. “Olive?”
Olive just blinks.
Faith approaches Queen Mor’s cell with her hands on her hips. “If he loves you so much, why does he have you in a cage?”
“This is one of the things I hate about humans. Your lives are so short you have no stomach for conflict. This is simply a”—she searches for the right word—“brief disagreement.”
“He’s wreaking havoc,” I say. “People are dying.”
She levels me with a glare. “That’s what people do. They die.”
I point to Olive. “Undo it.”
Queen Mor gestures vaguely to the bars. “I can’t. But don’t fuss too terribly, she’ll be back to her old self the moment you
leave.”
I search for a response, but tears spring to my eyes and I’m afraid if I keep speaking, I’ll cry with frustration. I don’t
want to cry in front of her.
Her head tips back and she rests it against the bars. “How is it I’m bored of you already?”
“Does anyone have a deck of cards?” I ask. The girls look confused, but Emmy raises her beaded reticule.
“I have my tarot cards,” she says.
I extend my hand and she places the creased deck in my palm.
I sit down on the floor, as close to Queen Mor as I can manage, so close my knees are pressed against the cold bars, and shuffle
the deck. Mor’s dark eyes narrow as she watches.
I sift through the stack, pulling out every major arcana card as I go. The World, the Fool, the Hanged Man, the Empress.
Then, with only the minor arcana left, I shuffle.
The cards are thick, with golden edges, and not easy to shuffle, but I do a serviceable enough job, and then I begin dealing.
With two hands dealt, mine in front of me, and hers pushed just slightly through the bars, I stare her down and wait.
“What is this?” she asks cautiously. It feels like a victory.
“A game.”
“Why?”
“If you’re bored, we’ll play while we talk.”
She approaches me. Even in this cell, stripped of her jewels, she still holds her head like a queen and I find she still has
the ability to frighten me.
“Fine.”
“Gin rummy?” I offer, sounding as confident as I can manage.
“Fine.”
There are fifty-six minor arcana cards, instead of the fifty-two in a regular deck, but divided among four suits, it’s easy
enough to play with them.
“It’s unsustainable,” I begin. “Bram has only been king for four months, but he won’t be able to carry on like this for much
longer. Any semblance of governance is gone. He spends all night partying with his court and then sleeps through the day.
The Others make cruel bargains at every turn, and every day more people die. Citizens are afraid right now, but eventually
that fear will give way to anger. You know enough about humans to understand that.”
She considers the card in her hand, then discards. The eight of wands.
“So far, the only fae who have come through the door have been Bram’s court and their staff. They’re outnumbered significantly.
If Bram carries on like this, there are going to be riots. People will fight back and he will end up dead.”
I’m bluffing with that last part. I still have no idea how you kill a faerie, but Bram once told me he killed his own father—so
I do know it is possible. The question that looms is whether I want to be the one holding the knife.
Mor’s dark eyes flash, but she still doesn’t say anything. She draws a new card. I do too.
“Tell me how to open the door between worlds, if not to save England, then to save Bram from himself. I know you don’t wish to see him harmed.”
She doesn’t look up at me. She’s on a roll now with her cards, discarding rapidly into matching piles until nothing remains
in her hand. “Gin,” she announces.
I fold, laying my cards upright on the ancient floor. “Lucky hand.”
“This used to be a temple,” she says after a beat of silence.
I glance up at the vaulted ceiling. We’re underground now, buried in a ruin under the streets of modern Bath, but it’s clear
this was once a grand place.
A serene smile spreads over her flawless face, as unchanged as ever. It’s as if we could have once been classmates or debutantes
together. “My son put me in a place of worship because he loves me.”
“He buried you underground because you’re a miserable bitch,” Faith says from behind me.
I turn my head to shoot her a glare. “Not helpful,” I hiss.
Queen Mor pays her no mind. She stands up, and I do the same until we’re mere inches apart. She has several inches on me and
looks down at me through the bars.
“You want to know what I think?” she snarls. “I think if you truly believed Bram was going to get himself killed, you’d just
let him do it. You’d sit there and watch him self-destruct. You’d still be queen when it was all over. If he’s gotten you
pregnant, then your children and their children would rule. Wouldn’t that be nice for you?”
I hate the way my face flushes. Bram comes to my bed sometimes, but the idea of letting him touch me like that makes me sick.
Queen Mor’s cruel gaze pierces me as sharp as any knife. “You need me.”
“I need you to save him from himself,” I say once more. “If not for the love of England, then for the love of your son.”
“I will not turn against him!” Her voices cracks like a lightning bolt across the cavernous space.
“Even though he has you in a cage?” Marion asks, her voice softer than mine.
Mor turns from me and walks to the other end of the cell, and I know the conversation has ended.
I curse. I pushed too hard too fast; that’s just like me. No patience for anything.
I gather Emmy’s tarot cards from the floor and pass them back to her.
In miserable silence, we walk out of the Roman ruins.
“What about Olive?” Emmy whispers.
She had wandered off in silence while I was playing cards. “She’ll meet us back at home. We can decide what to do with her
later.”
We turn the corner into the tunnels that will lead us back to the street, when I hear footsteps.
We look to each other, panicked. In this narrow passageway, there is nowhere to hide.
“Olive?” I call hopefully.
A figure approaches from the darkness, at first nothing but a silhouette.
But the closer he comes, the more features I can make out. A man, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a top hat.
After an agonizing moment, he steps into the lantern light.
Rhion smiles. “Hello, little rebels.”