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blinked at the barbed words but said nothing. She concentrated on holding his gaze. To look away would be a sign of weakness, but it was taking everything she had not to. She’d forgotten how intense his stare was, how scrutinized he made her feel. She’d felt that way ever since the very first time she’d met him.

     
    Rowan remembered the smell of fresh mint in the caravan, steaming from the glass of liquid that Tino had passed her. She hadn’t touched—and wouldn’t touch—a drop of it.
    “It all depends on how involved you want to get,” he’d told her, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.
    “I’m already involved,” she had replied, clutching her own glass tightly. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get my brother back.”
    He knew he had her after that. His swarthy face had broken into a smile, and he had reached for her hand, shaking it. Sealing the words to a promise.
    “There are thirteen of us working against them,” said Tino. “We call ourselves the Coven.”
    “You’re a coven?” Rowan asked uneasily. “Like… like witches?”
    Tino shook his head, his mismatched eyes never leaving hers.
    “No, not witches. The word ‘coven’ is older than that. It means ‘gathering.’ ”
    “So why are there thirteen of you? Don’t witches’ covens have thirteen members?”
    Tino leaned forward. “Forget witches. Can you think of no other significance for that number?”
    “The thirteen treasures of the fairy court?”
    “Exactly.”
    “I don’t see the connection.”
    “What happened with the thirteen treasures was the cause of the changeling trade in the first place,” Tino said patiently. “The split into the Seelie and Unseelie Courts was the beginning of it all. There were thirteen members of the original fairy court. And so the Coven has thirteen members, to counteract them. Like the Seelie and Unseelie, we’re divided.Some of us are human, some of us are fey. Each member swears an oath—an oath to serve the Coven to the best of their ability, and to keep it from discovery at all cost.
    “It’s a dangerous job,” Tino continued softly. “People come and go. We’re always on the lookout for new… recruits. Those recruits need to be invisible. Nameless. People who are tough and hardy. People who have known loss.” He leaned forward. “People with nothing left to lose. People like
you
.”
    “What do you mean about people ‘coming and going’?” Rowan asked.
    “The Coven is hundreds of years old,” Tino replied simply. “And no one lives forever. When old members retire, new ones are recruited.”
    “And if people change their minds?” she asked. “What then?”
    Tino’s finger paused momentarily in its track around the rim of his glass before starting again, slightly more slowly. “People don’t generally change their minds,” he said softly.

     
    Rowan was jolted from the memory as the next member arrived. A stocky boy of about her age slid through the door, his sandy hair obscuring his face. He shook it back out of his eyes and stared at her. She waited for the easy smile she knew—the smile with the distinctive chipped tooth—but it did not come.
    “Sparrow?” she said hesitantly.
    The boy responded with a curt nod and moved closer. Still he did not speak, but now that he was nearer she could smell him, all unwashed clothes and body—the smell of the streets. It was the first time she’d noticed that smell, and with a shock, it hit her: the last time she had seen Sparrow, she had smelled exactly the same as him. Placing his back to Rowan, Sparrow faced Tino.
    “Do we know if all the others can make it?”
    “Most have confirmed.” A muscle started to twitch in Tino’s cheek. “A couple have gone… quiet.”
    “Who—” Sparrow began, but fell silent as two more figures slipped into the building: a petite, sharp-faced girl whom Rowan recognized as the beggar she had met in Tickey End, and a skinny teenage boy with a shock of messy black hair.