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limit.
    But it won’t be the same . . . not if I’m sent back with this failure, this black mark on my record. The queen might think I’ve lost my talent. Or that I never had any to begin with. My position in the court would slide back so far it might take me hundreds of years to reclaim it. Maybe even thousands.
    And Breena—she needs me, veiling spell or no. She has enough to deal with, running the Guard and shouldering the weight of the raven’s prophecy. I can’t make her burden heavier.
    So my choice isn’t really even a choice. I have to stay here. I have to guard Richard. Even if this means I have to let him see.
    Would it really be so wrong for the prince to know of my existence? The other Fae don’t have to know. . . . Maybe it would even be better if Richard knew about us, the secret world so thickly entangled with his own. If he’s aware of the threats, he might be more careful.
    These excuses rattle inside me, flimsy, shattering to pieces under the laws I’ve followed for years upon years. Every shard is sharp, goading me toward the foolish. The inevitable.
    They rain down, fleck harder and harder, like glassy hail, until I can no longer bear it.
    By the time Richard finally turns to the door, my decision has been made. I let go of the frantically pieced spells, breaking into his reality before I can change my mind.
    “Bloody hell!” he yells, and steps back into one of the chairs. He falls in a tangle of long limbs, stubbing his pinky toe on the lion’s foot at the base.
    I keep still, afraid that if I move or step forward, the prince will start yelling again. Richard stays sprawled, all knots in his chair, watching me with narrowed, appraising eyes. I stare back.
    “You—you’re the girl from the garden,” he says a few seconds into our gaze. “Who are you? How’d you get in here?”
    It’s best to just be honest with him. To let everything out. If things go wrong, I can always wipe his memory.
    “My name is Emrys Léoflic. I’m the Fae who guards you,” I say the words slowly, carefully—gauging his reaction.
    At first, it’s bewilderment that soils Richard’s sharp features. Then he straightens up and stands. His eyes turn snakelike, slit and suspicious. “Edmund put you up to this, didn’t he? How much did the bugger pay you?”
    “It’s not a joke,” I tell him.
    “Right.” He laughs. The sound carries all the way up to the vaulted ceiling, where the Greek god Jupiter hovers over his human lover—the pair is as bright as they were when William Kent first painted them. “Look, I don’t know how you managed to get in here, but you should leave. Security’s a bit tight around here. If they catch you, you’ll be in heaps of trouble.”
    If only he knew how true his statement really was.
    “No, really. I’m your Frithemaeg. . . . Your . . .” I scour my brain for an interpretation, a term he might be able to fully understand. “Your Faery godmother.”
    Richard eyes me. Wariness has settled behind his stare, as if he’s having second thoughts about my mental state. “Right. And I’m Father Christmas. Look, I’ll give you one more chance, but I’ve got to call security if you don’t leave.”
    Words aren’t enough. I’ll have to show him. I push myself away from the door frame and begin to weave a spell. It’s a small cast, so insignificant that none of the other Fae will be able to sense it. “Inlíhte.”
    A Faery light appears, pulsing an otherworldly blue above our heads. Part of me is all relief. There’s no hitch to this spell. It seems that the rest of my magic still functions fine.
    So what’s wrong with my veiling spell?
    The prince watches the aqua light only a few seconds before he looks away. His face is pale, whited out like a window looking into a blizzard. His shoulders give the barest of shakes.
    I let the spell unravel.
    “I won’t hurt you,” I begin. “It’s my job to protect you, to keep you safe.”
    Richard blinks and his face