Chapter Twenty-One
The next night, a faerie footman led Shea to the Final Four dinner.
They turned corners Shea had never noticed before, then ascended a staircase for far longer than should’ve been possible given the height of the turrets.
With every step, her limbs grew heavier and her head lighter.
For good measure, she hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since her conversation with Ciara.
She felt terrible, woozy, brittle—but somehow not hungry.
It was as though the memory of Ciara’s kiss alone could sustain her.
The footman threw wide a set of doors that opened into the formal dining room.
A limb of the silver apple tree sprouted from the floor and curled around the stone walls, its branches forked like a stag’s.
Each point was draped with moss and shone with a pale faerie light.
At the center of the room was a massive live-edge table: a long slab of silver applewood polished to a shine.
Daniil arrived next, dressed as he would be for any tournament: a deceptively simple jacket, no tie, and the first few buttons of his shirt undone.
No pearl necklace rested against his collarbones; Shea felt only a little guilty she still hadn’t returned it.
Lily followed him a minute later, wearing a black gown and the same scuffed pair of Doc Martens she’d worn every other day.
“Where’s the last of our quartet?” Lily asked.
Daniil crossed his arms. “Good question. Fury?”
“Don’t ask me,” Shea muttered, pointedly ignoring the look Daniil was giving her. On the inside, her heart fluttered at the very suggestion of her name. Ugh.
She was spared from further interrogation by Midir emerging from another set of doors.
“Welcome. It is my pleasure to celebrate the four…” He trailed off as he noted the conspicuous absence of his own sister. “… the three of you tonight. Please, sit.”
Midir took his place at the head of the table.
Shea, Lily, and Daniil filled in each side.
The sheer size of the table meant there was an awkward distance between each of them.
Shea could hardly even see Lily on the other side of the centerpiece.
Black and white tapered candles burned in silver dishes, nestled in an arrangement of stones and apple branches.
How could anyone have a conversation like this?
As if on cue, a battalion of servants emerged from the wings. Each of them carried a carafe of pale wine. When one circled around to Shea’s elbow, Shea placed her hand over her glass. “None for me.”
The fae looked stunned for a moment, then cradled the carafe almost protectively against her chest. “Something else for you?”
“No,” Shea replied. “Nothing.”
Distress flickered momentarily across her face. With a bow of her head, the servant said, “Very good.”
“My apologies!”
Everyone’s head swiveled toward Ciara as she swept into the room.
She looked immaculate and decidedly unapologetic.
Half of her hair was pulled back from her face in elaborate braids and woven through the silver circlet around her temples; the rest tumbled down her back in perfectly coiled ringlets.
Tonight, she wore no cloak—only a white shirt, fastened at the center of her chest with a single mother-of-pearl button.
Shea did her very best not to notice the bare skin underneath.
Her black trousers were detailed with golden thread.
Knowing her, she must’ve spent several hours getting ready.
It was the equivalent of walking into a tournament five minutes late, cup of coffee in hand.
Shea’s heart soared pitifully at the sight of her.
Midir looked faintly disapproving—but entirely unsurprised. He gestured to the empty chair across from Daniil. “Please, join us.”
Ciara sank into the seat, then leaned back until she was balanced on the chair’s back legs.
A servant appeared at her side and filled her glass to the brim.
She raised it to her lips, then surveyed them over the rim with an air of boredom.
The silence stretched out, until there was no sound but the pop of sap in the fireplace.
Here they were: the final four, all their dreams on the line and tension simmering between them.
Midir smiled serenely, either oblivious or relishing their discomfort.
The servants sprang into action again. As coordinated as a pawn storm, they fanned out around the table carrying serving trays. One stopped at Shea’s side and lifted the lid from the tray, unveiling a bowl of green soup garnished with herbs. The rich scents of asparagus and dill filled the room.
As the fae prepared to set down the bowl, Shea said, “No.”
There was the faintest quiver in her hand. “Are you certain, my lady?”
“Yep.” Shea smiled thinly. “I’m sure.”
This time, Midir did glance her way. Curiosity flickered across his eerily inhuman face before his attention passed over her.
The courses came one by one. A salad with radishes, shaved fennel, and grapefruit.
Roasted meats with a crust of spices and slivers of snap peas.
A galette with goat cheese and arugula. Every dish was as beautiful as it was inviting.
Her mouth watered. Her stomach growled. She refused all of it as it came.
The servants had begun to murmur among each other. When she turned away every dessert option—some kind of berry crumble, lavender shortbread, and a lemon chiffon pie—she felt Midir’s gaze on her. “Something is not to your liking.”
Somehow, she hadn’t expected him to address the issue so openly. “It isn’t that.”
The uncomfortable silence had grown impossibly loud. She could focus on little else but the clink of glasses, the scrape of silverware against plates.
“If you require something different,” he said, “you need only ask.”
Shea gathered her nerve. “It isn’t food I want, Midir. I want justice. I know what you did.”
His pleasant expression faltered as understanding dawned. “You dare to fast against me?”
Shea only stared back at him impassively. His green eye bored into her with disbelief. Then, it slid over to Ciara, who sank deeper into her chair as though she could disappear.
“Your treachery again,” he hissed. “I should have known.”
Across the table, Daniil and Lily had stopped eating.
The faerie servants in the wings whispered among themselves.
It was that which seemed to break through to him.
His fair complexion darkened to a shade of scarlet.
Was it judgment and shame that he feared?
Or was it that she had figured out his tricks?
Midir set down his knife with a violent clack and let out a low, humorless laugh. “Very well, Shea Fury. What will you ask of me?”
“I want free passage throughout the castle,” she said. “All of it. For me and my allies.”
“I might have guessed.” Almost sulkily, he speared a slice of lamb with his fork. “You are welcome anywhere in my home. Now, will you please have something to drink?”
“Thank you.” She took the carafe of wine at her elbow and poured herself a glass. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute.”
She rose from her seat. Every eye in the room followed her as she strode toward the door, but no one stopped her.
Through one set of doors, then another, and she found herself on the parapet walk.
A narrow stretch of stone connected this tower to Midir and Aideen’s private quarters. She made her way down the path.
At this height, the wind gusted violently around her.
Thick skeins of mist poured off the crenelated walls and collected in knee-high whorls around her.
It was as though she waded through a sea of wraiths.
Shea drew her jacket tighter around herself—and froze.
At the far end of the walk, three figures loomed.
They stood side by side, tall and uncannily slender.
Although she could not see their eyes, she could feel their gazes locked onto her.
As she approached, they came more clearly into view: the stripe of bloody red cut across their eyes, the thick-jointed knees, the dappled gray feathers.
These had to be the Cranes of Churlishness and Denial.
There was something insubstantial about them, as though they had one foot on each side of the Veil.
They were creepy as hell. Each of them stood completely still, balanced on one leg.
Then, in unison, they flung their wings wide.
“Do not come, do not come,” said the first crane.
“Get away, away,” said the second.
“Turn around, around,” said the third.
Their voices reverberated violently through her skull. Her fighting instinct bled out of her like life from a mortal wound. It was very tempting to comply. With great effort, she gritted out, “Your master gave me permission to enter.”
This gave them pause. Their feathers ruffled, and their imposing wings drooped.
They twisted their long necks and exchanged sidelong glances.
Somehow, the truth of her words seemed absolute and unquestionable.
Maybe they were accustomed to beings who couldn’t lie, or maybe Midir’s promise had wrapped around her like a mantle.
Either way, they conferred and made their decision in an instant.
With the air of a shrug, they stepped aside.
Shea passed beneath the vaulted door they guarded and into a circular antechamber.
The sound of her footsteps bounced off the stone, growing louder and louder.
As she drank in the doors surrounding her on all sides, the enormity of her task struck her.
How was she supposed to find Aideen in this maze?
Shea tried the first door. The lock held fast against her for only a moment. Then, it yielded. She stepped through, into what looked to be a portrait hall. Paintings leered out at her from all sides. Some of them were of Midir, ageless and beautiful. Most of them were of Aideen.
Theoretically, it was possible these could’ve all been painted in the last six years. But the volume of them and the style of them—and the expression she wore, so different from her sister’s … No, these had existed for decades, maybe centuries.
Shea had always assumed Midir was mistaken—that maybe Aideen simply resembled the wife he claimed to have lost. Maybe they shared the same, admittedly uncommon name.
Stranger coincidences existed. But the woman in these portraits and her sister were undeniably the same person, even if this Aideen was different from her Aideen.
It seemed Ciara’s story was true, after all. Aideen really had been reborn.
At the end of the gallery, there was another door. Its frame seemed faded, as though it was hiding sheepishly from view. The longer she stared at it, the more solid it became. When Shea twisted the knob, it opened too eagerly, practically ushering her inside.
It was … a storage closet? Shea couldn’t tell, considering all of the furniture had been covered with tarps.
She grabbed one and pulled it off. The chaise longue underneath coughed up a cloud of dust. Shea sneezed.
Clearly, no one had been here in a long time.
Shea pulled off the tarps one by one, revealing a writing desk, a wingback chair, a vanity, and shelves full of books.
Only one covered piece remained, tucked into the far corner of the room.
Something about it unsettled her. It radiated an air of forlorn malice.
Slowly, she approached it and eased off its cover.
It was a portrait of a woman. The oil paints gleamed in the moonlight, the colors faded with age. Cracks spread through the subject’s face and warped her features. She was fae, judging by the delicate points of her ears. She had black hair and a serious face, but her eyes …
They looked almost scheming, sparkling with cleverness and wry humor—and they were bright yellow, like a wolf’s. Shea staggered backward in alarm, half expecting it to smile or speak. This was the woman who had attacked her and Daniil.
Fuamnach.
She exhaled sharply, feeling foolish. It was just a painting. It wasn’t going to hurt her. She drew closer, running her fingers over the fissures and pressing the canvas flat. She was so absorbed that she did not notice when a shadow darkened the doorway.
“Shea.”