I don’t believe Madoc knows I am the queen. I don’t think he even knows I am alive. That’s got to be worth something.

“If the Council finds out we have Orlagh’s attacker in custody, things will not go well,” Cardan says with sudden decision. “They will urge me to hand you over to the Undersea to curry favor for Elfhame. It will be only a matter of time before Nicasia knows you are in our hands. Let’s take you back to the palace and put you in the Bomb’s custody. She can decide what to do with you.”

“Very well,” the Ghost says with some combination of resignation and relief.

Cardan calls for his carriage again. Taryn yawns as she climbs inside, sitting next to the Ghost.

I lean my head against the window, only half-listening as Cardan manages to persuade my sister to tell him a little bit about the mortal world. He sounds delighted at her description of slushy machines, with their violently bright colors and sugary strangeness. She is halfway through an explanation of gummy worms when we are back at the palace and climbing down from the carriage.

“I will escort the Ghost to where he’ll be residing,” Cardan tells me. “Jude, you ought to rest.”

It seems impossible that it was just today I woke from some drugged sleep, just today the Bomb took out my stitches.

“I’ll walk you back to your rooms,” Taryn says with something of the conspiratorial, leading me in the direction of the royal chamber.

I go with her down the hall, two of the royal guard following us at a discreet distance.

“Do you trust him?” she whispers when Cardan is no longer within earshot.

“Sometimes,” I admit.

She gives me a sympathetic look. “He was nice in the carriage. I didn’t know he knew how to be nice.”

That makes me laugh. At the door to my chambers, she puts her hand on my arm. “He was trying to impress you, you know. Talking to me.”

I frown. “I think he just wanted to hear about weird candy.”

She shakes her head. “He wants you to like him. But just because he wants you to doesn’t mean you should.” Then she leaves me to go inside the enormous royal chambers alone.

I take off my dress and hang it over a screen. I borrow another of Cardan’s ridiculous ruffly shirts and put it on, then I climb into the big bed. My heart thumps nervously in my chest as I pull up to my shoulders a coverlet embroidered with a hunting stag.

Our marriage is an alliance. It is a bargain. I tell myself that it doesn’t have to be more than that. I try to tell myself that Cardan’s desire for me has always been mixed up with disgust and that I am better off without it.

I fall asleep waiting for the sound of the door opening, for his step on the wooden floor.

But when I wake, I am still alone. No lamps are lit. No pillows moved. Nothing is changed. I sit upright.

Perhaps he spent all the rest of the morning and afternoon in the Court of Shadows, playing darts with the Ghost and checking on the Roach’s healing. But I can more easily imagine him in the great hall, overseeing the last dregs of the night’s revelry and swilling gallons of wine, all to avoid lying beside me in bed.

A pounding on the door drives me to find one of Cardan’s dressing gowns and pull it awkwardly over the shirt I slept in.

Before I get there, it opens, and Randalin barges in. “My lady,” he says, and there is a brittle, accusatory tone in his voice. “We have much to discuss.”

I pull the robe more tightly around me. The councilor must have known Cardan wouldn’t be with me to come in like this, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of asking about Cardan’s whereabouts.

I can’t help recalling the Bomb’s words: You’re the High Queen of Elfhame. Act like it.

It is difficult, though, not to be shamed by being nearly undressed, with bed hair and bad breath. It’s hard to project dignity right at the moment. “What do we possibly have to talk about?” I manage, my voice as chilly as I can make it.

The Bomb would probably say I should throw him out on his ear.

The hob draws himself up, looking swollen with his own self-importance. He fixes me with his stern goat eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His ram horns are waxed to a high gloss. He goes over to the low couch and takes a seat.

I head to the door, opening it to find two knights I don’t know. Not Cardan’s full guard, of course. They would be with him. No, those who stand in front of the door are likely to be the least favored of his guard and ill-equipped to stop a member of the Living Council in high dudgeon. Across the hall, however, I spot Fand. When she sees me, she comes alert.

“Do you have another message for me?” I ask.

Fand shakes her head.

I turn to the royal guard. “Who let the councilor in here without my permission?” I demand. Alarm lights their eyes, and one begins to sputter an answer.

“I told them not to allow it,” Fand interrupts. “You need someone to protect your person—and your door. Let me be your knight. You know me. You know I’m capable. I’ve been waiting here, hoping—”

I recall my own longing for a place in the royal household, to be chosen as part of the personal guard of one of the princesses. And I also understand why she wouldn’t have been likely to be picked before. She’s young and—all evidence suggests—outspoken.

“Yes,” I say. “I would like that. Fand, consider yourself the first of my guard.” Never having had my own guard before, I find myself a little bit at a loss with what to do with her now.

“By oak and ash, thorn and rowan, I vow that I will serve you loyally until my death,” she says, which seems rash. “Now, would you like me to escort the councilor out of your apartments?”

“That won’t be necessary.” I shake my head, although imagining it gives me some real satisfaction, and I am not sure I entirely keep the smile off my face at the thought. “Please send a messenger to my old rooms and see if Tatterfell can bring some of my things. In the meantime, I would speak with Randalin.”

Fand frowns past me at the councilor. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she says, bringing her fist to her heart.

With the hope of new clothing in the future, at least, I go back inside. I perch myself on the arm of the opposite sofa and regard the councilor more contemplatively. He ambushed me here to throw me off in some way. “Very well,” I say with that in mind. “Speak.”

“Low Court rulers have begun arriving. They claim to have come to bear witness to your father’s challenge and to provide the High King with aid, but that is not the whole measure of why they are here.” He sounds bitter. “They come to scent weakness.”

I frown. “They are sworn to the crown. Their loyalty is tied to Cardan whether they want it to be or not.”

“Nonetheless,” Randalin goes on, “with the Undersea unable to send their forces, we are more dependent on them than ever. We would not wish the low Courts to bestow their loyalty only grudgingly. And when Madoc arrives—in mere days—he will seek to exploit any doubts. You create those doubts.”

Ah. Now I know what this is about.

He goes on. “There has never been a mortal Queen of Elfhame. And there should not be one now.”

“Do you really expect me to give up such enormous power on your say-so?” I ask.