That lovely smile returns to the queen’s pretty face, and the knot in my chest loosens.

At the queen’s command, the guard helps me into the carriage. It makes me nervous to sit, because the cushions are white as freshly shorn wool, and my britches are muddied from wrestling Zora in the snow.

The queen must sense my hesitation because she gestures toward the seat across from her and her husband. “It’s been a long while since I’ve had the pleasure of cleaning up a child’s mess.”

That gives me the confidence I need to take my seat, though my mind latches onto her words. I don’t remember my parents saying anything about the queen having a child. But perhaps if her child is dead, she might not wish to speak any more on the topic.

With a whistle, the king signals the driver and the horses launch into motion. Except instead of continuing on their route, they turn around.

“Oh, wait. My parents live that way.” I gesture toward the west, which we are leaving behind in the dust.

The queen’s pale brow creases. “But dear. I thought you said you wished to return to the castle with us.”

The king frowns in unison, and I’m beginning to wonder if he simply mirrors everything his wife does.

I stumble over my words, frantic now that the queen has misunderstood. “No, of course I want to come stay with you. But my parents will worry when I haven’t returned. And won’t…won’t I need a change of clothes?”

The question feels silly rolling off my tongue. Of course, the king and queen will have a change of clothes for me to wear. They are the king and queen, after all.

“You needn’t worry about clothes, child. As for your parents, I imagine your sister will inform them of the situation. Though if you desire, I’d be more than happy to send Cochran to relay the message.”

Figuring Cochran is the name of the guard whose fingers have already left bruises, I’m more than happy with the idea of not having to ride back with him to the palace.

That he’ll have to make the trek in the snow on foot is even better.

I nod, and the queen turns to the guard. “Find the boy’s parents and inform them that the queen has chosen him as her ward. Assure them that they will be compensated generously from the royal treasury so they might hire a farmhand in his place.”

A farmhand? “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I say. “My parents give me three days off every week, and I’ll surely be back to the farm by the time they need me to feed the alpacas.” I’m not sure what the typical schedule of an apprentice is like, but I don’t see why I wouldn’t be able to visit my parents on the days I’m not training.

Cochran grunts and, as if he didn’t hear me, hops out of the carriage and trudges off in the opposite direction.

I turn back to the king and queen, guilt twisting my stomach to bits. “You really don’t have to pay them. I’ll work extra hard to make it up to them on my days off.” But now that I think of it, perhaps I have overcommitted my time. Maybe being an apprentice will be too demanding for me to provide the help my family needs from me.

The queen leans forward, cupping my cheeks in her palm. Her fingers are colder than I expect, even though they’re gloved in white leather.

I decide then that I don’t like it when she touches me, but I figure it’s bad manners to tell the queen that.

“I think I’d like to go back home, after all,” I whisper through chattering teeth.

The corners of her lips tilt upward. “But Farin, we are going home.”

My legs are shaking, my feet rattling against the floorboards of the carriage. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t get them to stop.

I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. “My name’s Nox, remember?”

The queen brushes my cheek with her thumb. “I like Farin better, don’t you?”

CHAPTER 12

BLAISE

Reading is already difficult enough without the distraction of Gunter clanging about at the counter with his vials and beakers, mixing concoctions that hiss when combined, filling my cell with a foul stench.

“You know, it would be much easier to focus if you did that somewhere else,” I grumble over the dusty grimoire I’ve been slogging through for the past two hours.

Gunter doesn’t bother to turn from his experiments. Instead, he just says, “This was my workspace long before you took up residence here.”

My belly spasms, like my body thinks I should be laughing but has forgotten how. “You know what? You’re right. How inconsiderate of me. I must have forgotten my manners when I selected your workspace as my chambers.” I toss the grimoire on my bed-dais upon which I’m perched, and the noise of it slipping off the edge and onto the floor is enough to get Gunter’s full attention. He turns around and visibly flinches when I hop down from the dais and pick the book up by a clump of pages.

“You could always move me to the library,” I say, and he doesn’t take his beady eyes off of me until I’ve placed the book safely back upon the dais. “Then we’d be out of each other’s way.”

“It is Her Majesty’s wish that you remain here.”

“So you agree with me, then?”

Gunter turns his back to me once again. He’s dressed in another set of black robes. At least I assume it’s another set. I suppose the male could just simply refuse to change, or that set might be the only one he owns.

You would think he’d start to stink if that were the case, but then again, it isn’t as if I could smell him over the deviations of nature he concocts. His hair is combed back neatly, every strand in place, though there’s no amount of combing that could make the blotches of missing pigment appear neat.

I take a few laps around the dais, stretching my sore limbs as I do. Gunter might claim that he obeys the queen’s every command, but he hasn’t bothered to chain me back to the table, and I’m not about to bring it up.

Once my legs are sufficiently stretched and my back is sufficiently cracked, I climb back onto the altar and plop onto my belly. It’s probably not the best position for siphoning through the dense grimoire, but I’m at least less likely to drift off to sleep than if I tried lying on my back.

Gunter confirmed this morning that the queen has agreed not to personally end my life should I cooperate with extracting the parasite and handing it over to her, and should the information I discover prove useful.

I wasn’t there for the bargain, but it sounds like it has enough qualifications to be believable. Besides, Gunter’s fae and can’t lie to me about it.

I find the section where I left off and get to work.

Fae and humans alike have long since been captivated by the allure of the heavenly host and the magical properties they possess. Though the most powerful of fae draw their magic from their ancestral line, through the channels of Old Magic that run through their veins, not all fae have access to such magic. Indeed, it is well accepted among most scholars that the Old Magic originated from the Fabric that separates the realms, the veil that maintains the distinction between one world’s realities and the next’s. When the Fabric frayed, several strands of the Fabric drifted into the various realms, and thus was the beginning of what we now refer to as the Old Magic.

But there are records of humans performing magic well before the fae set foot in this realm and absorbed the Old Magic, and seldom few of the accounts match the pattern of how the Old Magic once operated.

Some humans acquired their magic through the natural elements available to them. Myrtus petals were often slipped into teas to brew love potions. Physicians mixed crushed marebone with their patients’ wine to plunge them into deep slumber during procedures, though the use of this method was soon discontinued, as they often found their patients difficult to wake. Blood, of course, was used as a magical binding agent in many rituals.

Instead, the humans of old acquired their magic from the heavenly host, among other natural elements. Some scoff at this notion, but this scholar supposes that, if it is true that the Old Magic originated from the material that separates the realms, it is not too far of a stretch to believe there is a natural sort of magic that maintains order in this realm—and are not the celestial elements a part of this order? Does not the moon command the waves, the sun the crops, the stars the time?

I can’t help but let out a yawn at this section. I’ve never been one for theory, and I don’t really care why magic works the way it does, so long as this book informs me how to work it. Gunter turns his head a bit, and his nostrils widen, as if it’s inherently offensive to yawn at a book. I’d like to point out to him that neither the book nor the book’s author can sense my slight, but I think better of it and continue.

The first records of humans wielding celestial magic originate with tales of the West, before the Quake that left this realm divided by impassable gulfs and oceans. It is said that after the Quake, much of the knowledge of moonwielding was lost to a lack of practice, and then to a lack of believing in such practice, many attributing such stories to legends and fables rather than history.

Still, the legends—as we will call them for the sake of prudence—tell of women who gathered moonlight from morning dew in troughs carved into mountainsides, like a person might gather salt from seawater. Women were said to drink the moonlight during pregnancy to support the health of the baby, but many stories suggest these children were born with supernatural powers—the ability to lull an entire village to sleep with their cry, the capacity to snare animals into their will.

The drinking of moonlight became outlawed, as was only natural.

But the expecting women weren’t the only ones said to drink the moonlight. Warriors were said to consume it before battle, and the ones who did often boasted the strength of ten men. Healers partook of the milky substance when they were facing particularly difficult plagues, and it is said their hands were guided during procedures as if by an invisible force.

But with the Quake, the exact methods for obtaining liquid moonlight were lost, and so was the desire to pursue it. After all, the stories, extraordinary as they may be, were also frightful, for prolonged exposure to the moonlight was said to drive its acolytes mad. Healers acclaimed for saving entire villages from disease would wake to find their hands covered in blood and soon find themselves the only living being amongst a village of corpses. Warriors praised for leveling their enemies were found hanging from the rafters of their cottages. Children were sometimes heard howling with the wolves. Babes—