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flaring nostrils.
    “Trouble we see,” the bird croaks. “Fae must be ready.”
    After almost a minute of gaping at the feathery messenger, Breena finds her voice. “What—what’s going to happen?”
    The bird gives another mournful cry and stretches its flightless wings. “Only shadows we see, not shapes. Be on your guard, sisters.”
    The raven’s stringy black feet carry him back into the darkness, leaving Breena and me in silence. We sit, staring at the dewdrops forming on the yard’s immaculate grass.
    “So the ravens have seen something. . . .” My voice is as jagged after so much quiet.
    Breena stands; her heather-gray dress falls like water over her knees.
    “What are you doing?”
    “The only thing I can,” she says. All the weariness I couldn’t see before is soaked into those five words. “I’m going to send a sparrow to Mab. Then I’m going to go back and check on the royals.”
    She’s right. Against the vagueness of such words, there’s little more we can do except tell Queen Mab and wait.
    “And you, you will go back and finish your shift with Richard. The Guard needs you, Emrys. I need you.”
    Back to the prince. Back to that failed spell, that connection. Back to those things I can’t explain.
    I don’t argue. Instead I follow Breena back out of the Tower’s walls, casting one more anxious glance back at the courtyards. The moon’s skeleton glow calls out the ravens’ huddled shapes. Several are gathered at the base of an acacia tree. Another pair lurks beneath a cannon. All of them stare after us, their tiny black eyes glued to our every step.
    And I remember how they’re never wrong.
    A shiver coils around my bones as I retreat through the Tower gate.

Four
    T he prince is just getting back from a night out with his Eton chums when I return to the palace. The youngling I replace is all odd looks and cold shoulders in my direction before she leaves. My abrupt departure from the garden must be common knowledge among the Guard. In any other circumstances, this knowledge would press me down, give root to several years’ worth of embarrassment. But there’s no room for this feeling with the raven’s words threading through all corners of my mind.
    Shadows. Trouble. Danger to the blood.
    Richard’s blood.
    I stay at the far end of the living area and watch as the prince shucks off his jacket. It crumples like a dead animal on the rug, the only thing in this grand room that’s ruffled, out of place. Richard, in his once crisp, white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, still blends into the grandeur. His cut jaw and tall frame were meant for these rooms of gold crown molding and furniture that hasn’t been upholstered since the Victorian Age.
    I feel the veiling spell slipping again, sifting like sand through my grasp. It shouldn’t be this hard. I shouldn’t have to grit my teeth and weave new magic every few minutes to hide myself from Richard’s gaze.
    Something’s wrong with me. My magic.
    Has the venom of the machines finally settled inside me? Is the city starting to tear me apart, like it’s done to so many of the older Fae? These thoughts call up panic, stuttering my heart and electrifying my chest at the same time.
    No. It’s not the machines or the sickness they bring. I’m too young. And, if that were the case, Breena would be falling to pieces too.
    The revelation doesn’t bring me much peace. The veiling spell is still fighting, wriggling out of my control like an eel caught by its tail.
    I’m at the doorway, bracing against its frame. My invisibility, my absence from Prince Richard’s senses, won’t last long. In minutes, maybe even seconds, the spell will yank out of my control. He’ll see me.
    I could call the youngling back. I could explain everything to Breena. She’d send me back to the Highlands, back to those snowcapped peaks that slope down to the tea-stained water of the lochs. The place where I’m whole, where I can fly without